


The light that is coming in the morning

by WoodsWitch



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adventures through history, Crowley Hates the 14th Century (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24061030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoodsWitch/pseuds/WoodsWitch
Summary: Europe in the 14th century was bloody awful: plagues, famine, century-long wars...no wonder many humans mistakenly thought the apocalypse was already upon them. The only positive, as far as Crowley was concerned, was that Aziraphale was starting to seem comfortable with their Arrangement, even if that was rather torturous in its own way. Unfortunately, their first true, if initially accidental, collaboration goes down like a lead balloon.Guest appearances by Petrarch, John Ball, Watt Tyler, Richard II, and some Cambridge students attempting to do the Faust thing. Can be treated as a prequel to "No one expects the Spanish Inquisition"*TW: References to most of the expected medieval unpleasantness, including antisemitism, messy execution techniques, the black death, etc.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	1. The Bloody 14th Century

_ England, Late July 1381 _

There was a hunt going on in the forest of Billericay, in Essex. Unlike most lordly hunts, however, the quarry here had two legs. Some of the peasants had done a decent bit of damage with their bows, but the space between the trees was too narrow for a proper pike formation even if they could have gotten their demoralized fellows organized. The fight had soon turned into a rout. Still, they weren't entirely on their own. A silver-haired figure in a pale cote moved furtively among the trees, sending a burst of speed and a bit of luck to the unfortunates who ran past.

"You there!" A knight had spotted him, and was spurring his horse forward.

A dark figure hurtled out of the bushes to Aziraphale's left.

"Run, bless it!" the demon yelled, seizing the angel's arm and pulling him toward a denser clump of trees. As they ran, Crowley made a gesture over his shoulder. The knight's horse threw a shoe and stumbled. The knight was thrown, hitting a young beech with a dull clang. The demon smiled grimly.

"Right. In here." The pair ducked inside a hollow tree.

Hoofbeats approached, and Aziraphale felt the demon push him into the darkest part of the shadows, right up against the inside wall of the cavity.

"Sssh" the demon hissed. He strained his ears and occult senses, trying to focus on potential threats, rather than the warm, soft figure in his arms. _You know_ , a treacherous thought suggested, _if you leaned in just a few more inches, you could kiss him._

Aziraphale might have had a similar realization. "Er, Crowley..."

"Sshut up!" Crowley whispered, as much to himself as to the angel. He waited an agonizing few minutes. The sound of horses had faded away. "I'm going up top to have a look. Ssstay here."

He shifted into snake form and slipped through a crack in the 'ceiling', up into the branches.

After about half an hour of quiet, Crowley slithered down. He shifted back to man-shape and knocked on the trunk. Aziraphale emerged, brushing bits of rotten wood off his woolen cote.

The demon sighed. "Well, that was a thing."

Aziraphale nodded glumly. "Yes. 'Went down like a lead balloon', as you're so fond of saying."

As they walked toward the edge of the wood, the angel's brow furrowed. "What _is_ a 'balloon', anyway?"

"An idea I've been kicking around for a while. Can't get the materials right, though1." A sprawling oak tree at the edge of the wood had been used as an impromptu gallows. At least fifteen peasants hung by their necks from its branches. "Urggh. Poor buggers."

"May God have mercy on them."

Crowley snorted, but there wasn't much rancor in it. Humans did have a shot at divine mercy, after all, and he'd never begrudged them that as much as most of the other demons did. "I need a drink. I don't suppose you've got anything?"

Aziraphale unhooked a skin from his belt. "It's not full, but you're welcome to share."

The corner of the demon's mouth curled upward. "I knew I liked you, angel. Let's go somewhere else, though. This place is depressing, and you never know if those knights might come back for a look at their handiwork."

_ France, seventy-four years earlier _

As he eyed the bonfire and tried to ignore the smell of burning flesh and hair, Crowley reflected that this century was off to a rough start. His last assignment had been to Edward Longshanks' court. A real bastard of a king, but this Phillip had him beat. He wanted to tell hell that there wasn't any _point_ in tempting this one; he was clearly damning himself quite nicely. First there were his incessant wars. Then, to get money for the wars, he'd had the bright idea of kicking the Jews out of his kingdom and seizing their property. When that wasn't enough, his attention had fallen on the Knights Templar, returning from a largely failed crusade. A few accusations of magic, heresy, and sodomy later, and the Templars were either fleeing for the border or roasting in this bonfire, their money in Phillip's pocket.

Of course, Crowley _didn't_ tell any of his superiors that. And, ordinarily, he'd be happy to avoid the work and take the credit. But it helped if there were something _fun_ he could do instead. Sticking close to kings had its benefits when it came to decent wine and such, but it also kept one close to the unpleasantness. Maybe the angel had the right idea, hanging out in that scriptorium in England. Sure, it was excruciatingly boring2, but at least there was a lot less screaming. Maybe it was time to move on.

_ Ravenna, 1315 _

Crowley pulled his dark wool cloak closer around his shoulders and grimaced. "You're _sure_ this isn't another Flood? It seems like this has been going on all year."

He and Aziraphale had taken shelter from the rain under a convenient portico. The angel nodded. "Quite sure. Not that the humans haven't been speculating along those lines, mind you. The localized flooding has been unpleasant enough, and I'm worried about the crops. I saw that fellow Famine riding through Kent with an extremely smug look."

Crowley nodded grimly. "Yeah, me too. He's been racking up the miles of late3

"At least it is warmer here," Aziraphale said, trying to look on the bright side. "You were quite right about that. Oh." He lowered his voice. "How is the job going?" The 'job' in question was a bit of artistic inspiration Crowley had agreed to cover for the angel as part of The Arrangement. Some exiled Florentine was working on a big epic poem about the afterlife. Crowley had been helping with the first book, which basically involved dropping a few real bits of information about hell along with a larger number of entertaining whoppers.

"Oh, fine, fine. Bit of a melancholy bastard, and he seems to have some _deeply_ held grudges. But he can write, I'll give him that. He doesn't write _fast_ , mind you. I don't think I can stick around until he finishes the thing."

Azraphale nodded. "That's quite all right, dear chap. I appreciate the assistance for now."

"What are _you_ down here for, then? Besides getting out of the cold and enjoying the irresistible pleasure of my company, I mean?"

Crowley grinned seductively, and could almost swear the angel blushed. But it was hard to tell under that stupid peaked hood.

"If you must know, I've been checking up on the Franciscans, here and in France. It seems they've been getting themselves into a bit of trouble."

"Mmmn. Just surprised it didn't happen earlier," the demon grunted.

He'd run into Francis at the beginning of the last century. A delightfully odd chap, chatting away with the birds and beasts - snakes included - and giving away every bit of money or clothing or food he could possibly spare. He'd reminded the demon a bit too much of that other fellow whose preaching had gotten him crucified. The similarity was deliberate, of course, but not exactly safe. The popes might supposedly have been Christ's vicars on earth, but they were also men with a lot of power and wealth who did not like people being reminded of 'the meek shall inherit the earth' or the thing about camels and needles. Francis had walked that line more successfully, but had pushed himself so hard that he only outlived Yeshua by ten years.

"Do you think I ought to tell Dante that purgatory isn't real?" the demon remarked. "He's planning on doing a whole book on it."

Aziraphale considered this. "Better not," he decided. "Then you'd have to explain how you know."

"Well, it's not like it's mentioned in any of the scriptures. They just made it up, and then forgot they made it up!"

"I know, my dear. But you know how humans get attached to their interpretations."

Crowley shrugged. "Yeah, I suppose. Do you mind if I throw in some really trippy bits?4"

_ Bologna, 1344 _

"Now, Signor Crowley, I must have your opinion on my latest sonnet."

Crowley nodded at the earnest face of the scholar that peered out at him from under a red hood. "Go on, then, Master Petrarca."

The fellow cleared his throat.

_Sweet air, that circlest round those radiant tresses,  
and floatest, mingled with them, fold on fold,  
deliciously, and scatterest that fine gold,  
then twinest it again, my heart’s dear jesses5;_

_Thou lingerest on those eyes, whose beauty presses  
stings in my heart that all its life exhaust,  
Till I go wandering round my treasure lost,  
like some scared creature whom the night distresses._

_I seem to find her now, and now perceive  
how far away she is; now rise, now fall;  
Now what I wish, now what is true, believe._

_O happy air! Since joys enrich thee all,  
Rest thee; And thou, O stream too bright to grieve!  
Why can I not float with thee at thy call?_

The demon swallowed. "Very fine, my friend. Very...evocative."

"Ah, thank you, Signor." The scholar's keen dark eyes regarded the demon closely. "If you will pardon me, I think my words seem to stir something in you. Have you perhaps known such a love? A love that torments yet uplifts?"

"Ngk. Uh. Yeah. Yeah, I suppose I have. Er. I do."

That was the other thing that was making this particular century so tortuous. Crowley had fallen a second time in Eden. By the time Aziraphale had raised his wing to shelter him from the first storm, the demon's heart was not his own. But it wasn't until The Arrangement that he'd been forced to give that feeling its proper name. He'd told himself the deal wasn't _really_ about spending more time with the angel; surely it was mainly to avoid slaving over temptations that would just get canceled out. But it soon became clear that he'd been lying to himself. The more they met up to compare notes, the more letters they exchanged, the more he wanted. And that's what he'd gotten, for a while. Lately, though, there had been decades between their meetings, and it was driving him crazy.

The poet waggled a finger, and his eyes twinkled. "I thought so. I know the symptoms well, my friend. What sort of a lady is she?"

Crowley gulped his wine inelegantly and shook his head. "Not a lady." _Oops._ "An angel." _There. Let's pretend I'm being metaphorical._

Pitfall averted, he warmed to his topic. "With shining curls and eyes that sting the heart, as you said. Just the kindest, brightest being in creation, but enough of a...with enough of a sharp wit to keep things interesting. And I can't say anything about how I feel. I'm just this crawling, broken thing. Er. By comparison."

Petrarch nodded sagely. "Ah, yes. Just how I feel about my Laura. But take heart, Signor. A pure love like ours lifts us up and makes us better men, more worthy of heaven."

The demon snorted. "It would have some heavy lifting to do in my case. And my love isn't as pure as all _that_ , believe me. It's just that even if it were returned - which is _highly_ unlikely - I couldn't...I can't risk dragging my angel down to my level."

He shook his head and took another drink. "Enough about me. How long have you been pining over this Laura?"

The scholar lifted up his eyes reverently. "I saw her in the church of Sainte-Claire d' Avignon fifteen years ago. One look from her bright countenance captured my heart forever."

Crowley's jaw dropped. "Wait. All this out of one look?"

"Not _just_ one. Of course, there was little hope of more, for the lady is married and of most modest and gracious temperament. But a few glimpses were enough that I could find no peace."

The demon rolled his eyes, though the gesture was mostly hidden behind his dark glasses. "Oh, for Sa...Someone's sake, man. You think _that's_ torment? How would it be if you saw this Laura of yours every few dec...er, weeks, and you wrote each other letters, and drank together, and joked together, and knew practically everything about each other... _and yet she was still forever out of reach?_ "

The poet considered this. An odd sort of lady his red-haired friend was in love with, to be familiar as a mistress and yet untouchable. But... "Well, I should say that would be heaven in hell, and hell in heaven."

Crowley refilled his glass. "Precisely, my friend. Precisely."

When Crowley returned to his rooms, he saw there was a letter waiting for him, addressed in a familiar hand. He pounced on it eagerly.

_My dear Crowley,_

 _While I should not say that I hope your ventures prosper, I hope this letter finds you well. I have been in Oxford assisting some of the scholars, but I have instructions to_ _head far north within the year. Have you ever been to the Norse countries, or is that too cold for your blood? In any event, let me know if you might be traveling in the same direction._

_Aziraphale_

The demon smiled. It was probably as close as the angel would ever get to saying "I miss you; Come with me", but he would take it. He began packing immediately, including among his luggage a packet of Cicero's letters to deliver to the angel. Petrarch had found the originals in some corner of the Verona cathedral, and had graciously had a copy made up. After a moment's deliberation, Crowley tucked a copy of an earlier sonnet inside the bundle:

 _When_ _Love doth those sweet eyes to earth incline,  
and weaves those wandering notes into a sigh  
with his own touch, and leads a minstrelsy  
clear-voiced and pure, angelic and divine,—_

_He makes sweet havoc in this heart of mine,  
and to my thoughts brings transformation high,  
So that I say, “My time has come to die,  
if fate so blest a death for me design.”_

_But to my soul, thus steeped in joy, the sound  
brings such a wish to keep that present heaven,  
it holds my spirit back to earth as well._

_And thus I live: and thus is loosed and wound  
the thread of life which unto me was given  
by this sole Siren who with us doth dwell._

_ England, 1345 _

The cliffs of Dover were in sight, and Crowley breathed a sigh that was half relief, half annoyance. Why did his angel have to favor _this_ place so much that the damp little island had become beloved by extension? But there it was. Crowley had been spending enough time in England over the past few centuries it was starting to feel like home.

Suddenly, the demon felt a jerk, and the cliffs vanished. Not only the cliffs, in fact, but the boat and the channel as well. Crowley blinked. He seemed to be in some sort of cellar, and there were three humans - boys in their late teens, wearing long robes - gaping at him. "It worked," one of them said faintly.

 _Right. Enough of this nonsense_. Crowley strode forward...and then jumped back, as something like a small lightning bold jolted his body. He glanced down. _A summoning circle. Fantastic. Now everyone is probably going to assume I fell overboard, and start bartering off my luggage._

One of the boys cleared his throat. "You are most welcome, oh great demon Crowlee. I have called thee forth by ancient rites, and I now bind thee here until thou hast answered all our questions and diligently performed our will. By the name of Solomon and..."

"Yes, yes, let's take all that as read. Who are you, and what do you want?" Crowley snapped.

"I am called Benjamin of Southhampton, oh demon. And I do conjure you to deal with me truthfully, by sun and moon, by light and darkness, by earth and sea..."

"Er, Ben?" one of the other students whispered. "Can we move this along? The demon seems ready to do business already, and I have an early lecture tomorrow."

 _Students_ , Crowley thought. _Speaking English, so this must be either Oxford or Cambridge. So close, and yet so far._

Benjamin glared at his friend, and tried to look dignified as he turned back to the figure slouching aggressively in the center of the circle. "Oh demon Crowlee, we wish for you to grant to us powers over this world."

Crowley scratched his head and pursed his lips. "You're going to have to be a bit more specific, friend. What sort of powers?"

Benjamin gestured at his companions. They whispered together for a little while.

Crowley rolled his eyes. _Amateurs! Summoning up a demon without even having decided what they wanted._

The boys finished their conference and turned back to the demon in the circle. "Oh demon Crowlee," Benjamin intoned. "I conjure you to give us the power to sway the will of other men to do our bidding."

Crowley shook his head. "Ooh, can't do that. Sorry lads."

"You can't?"

"Nope. That would be violating free will. I'm kind of a fan of free will, you see. And...Are you _drawing_ me? Stop that!"

The smallest of the boys stuffed the pen and parchment into his sleeve guiltily6.

Crowley took a deep breath. "Where was I? Right. And even if I wasn't, I can't see the Almighty allowing demons that kind of power, do you? I mean, the best we can do is give you a crash course in rhetoric, really."

Benjamin glared at him. "Fine. Then I conjure you to grant us each a Dukedom to rule over."

"Ah, sorry again. Not my department. You'll have to take that up with the king."

The third student plucked at Benjamin's sleeve. "Ben, look. I have to go. Maybe we can take this up again tomorrow?"

Benjamin sighed. "Maybe you're right, Thomas." He turned back to Crowley. "Demon, I conjure you to stay within this circle. You will not stir until we release you, and you will harm no one unless we command. By Saturn, Mars, Venus..."

"Yeah, yeah, lad. I'm staying." Crowley sat down on the floor. "Just toss me that wineskin over there, will you? I'm parched."

Benjamin of Southhampton merely scoffed and stomped up the stairs. But Thomas and the other boy glanced at each other, and then Thomas tossed over the wine before hurrying after their friend.

 _Sensible lads_ , Crowley thought. _Keep your captive demon happy._ He took a swig of the wine and made a face. Then he waved a hand and the vinegary liquid became a quite passable Hippocras7.

The boys returned the next night, and found Crowley still sitting cross-legged inside the circle.

"Let me make sure I understand you, demon," Benjamin said. "You can't make us Dukes or Lords. And you can't give us the power to sway men to our will."

"Nope."

"What about riches? Can you conjure up gold and jewels for us?"

Crowley considered this. "I might be able to do something there. Of course, you'd have to let me out so I could go fetch your new riches."

"How would we know you'd come back?" Thomas interrupted.

"Ah, well. You could tie a red thread around my wrist, you see. Then I'd have to return when you called."

"Er, I don't think you should listen to it, Ben," the third boy said. "That's not a charm I've seen in any of our books."

Benjamin glared at Crowley. "I thought I conjured you to speak truthfully, hellspawn!"

Crowley shrugged, ignoring the disrespectful tone. "Well, either you did that conjuring properly and your books are incomplete, or you did it wrong and I'm lying. Take your pick."

The boy considered this. "You swear you can't fetch us gold without leaving the circle?"

"Yep." It wasn't true, of course. Crowley could have easily snapped his fingers and miracled up a pile of gold coins in the corner. But, if he did that, there was a good chance he'd be stuck in here for _years_ serving as cash dispenser to these idiot kids.

The lead conjurer heaved a sigh. "Fine, then. I command you to obtain for us the love of the fairest women in England."

"Mmm... Sorry, mate. Love spells aren't my department either. You should have called up Zepar8, if that's what you're after. And even then I should warn you the effects are limited. Part of that whole free will thing again. Like, even if you _do_ get hold of Zepar, don't expect some fair maiden to fall properly in love with you forever. Its really just a fancier version of getting someone drunk enough they don't notice you've got half your teeth missing and an extra toe. It wears off, and then they are usually very rightfully pissed at you."

Benjamin groaned and stormed out of the room, followed by Thomas. The third boy, who seemed to have been eyeing the demon a bit more closely than the others, started to trail after them. Crowley gave him a slow smile. "Wait a minute, sweeting. I couldn't help your friends with that last request, but let me out of here and I _might_ be able to do something for _you_."

The boy blushed violently and fled. Crowley sighed and sprawled out as best he could inside the circle. It was looking like he might be here a while.

It took another week for the student conjurers to come back. But they continued to be frustrated.

"What about knowledge of the past and future?" Benjamin demanded.

Crowley shrugged. "The future? No demon's particularly good at prognostication, but Balam would be your best bet. The past? I suppose I could tell you a bit about what I've seen. Do you want to know what Caesar’s favorite color was?"

"No," Benjamin said coldly. "What about making men wise?"

"I could try. Here's a good place to start: Maybe spend more time on your studies and less time bothering demons?"

"Can you at least give me perfect knowledge of French and Latin?" Simon, the smallest conjurer, asked plaintively. "I have an examination tomorrow."

Crowley shook his head. "Sorry. That's Forneus."

Benjamin threw up his hands. "For God's sake, demon! What _do_ you do?"

Crowley grinned. "Bring me some more wine, and I'll tell you. At least four skinfuls, if you please."

The student conjurer groaned, but fetched the wine, and tossed the skins into the circle. Crowley took a swig from one of them. "Ah, that's much better. What do _I_ do? Cause minor inconveniences and annoyances, mostly. Or I could bring you some apples. Do you like apples?"

"Inconveniences? _Apples_?" Benjamin rounded on one of the other boys. "Thomas, you said that was the sigil of one of the most ancient and important demons in hell."

Thomas cringed. "Look, that's just what the manuscript said, Ben. How was I supposed to know they were lying?"

As they stormed off once again, Crowley smiled to himself. Whatever manuscript they'd found hadn't been lying, exactly. He certainly was quite ancient and important - or at least _influential_. But then _he_ wasn't really lying either. Although Crowley was getting quite stiff from sitting or lying crookedly on the hard floor, annoying his captors was rather entertaining. He had no doubt that Benjamin, in particular, was working out his frustrations on everyone around him, smudging his soul a bit more each day.

For four more days, Crowley sat in the cellar alone. He had finished off the first two skins of wine, but it had recently occurred to him that he really ought to pace himself. Who knew when those idiots might be back. When he did once more hear footsteps coming down the stairs, it proved to be just Thomas and Simon.

"Where's your fearless leader?"

"Sulking," Simon said succinctly.

Crowley snorted. "Figures. So why are you two here?"

"We just wondered..." Thomas said. "Why would a demon just cause inconveniences and give people fruit? I mean, no offense meant, but it seems a bit pointless."

Crowley shrugged. "Well, what's the point of being a human?"

There was a long silence. "Uh...to serve God?" Thomas hazarded.

Crowley pursed his lips and nodded slowly. "Interesting answer. Do you think that's what you're doing right now? Kidnapping demons and having a bit of a chat with them? Trying to get them to steal from people or over-ride their free will for your benefit?"

The boys paled visibly, and Crowley continued: "More importantly, though...Is serving God a _sufficient_ purpose, do you think? Oh yes, the Almighty made you, so that means you just do exactly what Sh...God wants. And if you do it right, you get to go to heaven and spend the rest of eternity kissing your maker's arse. I mean, it's _a_ purpose, sure. But I can't say it ever seemed like a very satisfactory one to me. How can what you do mean anything if you're just following the orders of someone who never even explains what they're doing?"

Crowley looked at their troubled faces, and grinned. "Oh, I forgot to mention my greatest talent: Asking inconvenient questions. Want to hear some more?"

The boys looked at each other, then fled up the stairs without another word.

Crowley sighed, and picked up the third wineskin. Then, just before he put it to his lips, he paused, and glanced down at the summoning circle. The _chalked_ summoning circle.

_Huh. A shame to waste miraculously improved wine, but if this works..._

One wineskin was enough to washing away one of the runes and a chunk of the outer circle. Crowley poked a finger gingerly through the border. No zap. The demon gave a satisfied hiss, stretched out his wings, and apparently blinked out of existence.

He re-materialized on the roof. From here, he could see the broad fens that bordered the river Cam stretching out into the distance. Cambridge, then. Pity - Aziraphale's letter had come from Oxford. Still, it was only a hundred miles off. He stretched out his occult senses, hoping to sense bright spot that he'd come to recognize as the angel's ethereal signature. He _did_ feel it, but not in the direction of Oxford; it was moving north. Well, the angel had said something about going to the lands of the Norsemen. Perhaps he'd started already, but no matter. Crowley could catch up. The demon spread his inky wings and launched into the sky, ignoring the scattered shrieks from the ground below. Unlike Aziraphale's bosses, his were perfectly fine with him causing fear and consternation among humans. Now - first to Portsmouth, to find his luggage. And if that grubby-fingered sea captain had done any damage to the angel's manuscripts, he would live to regret it.

_ Sweden, 1346 _

Crowley plucked a piece of smoked fish off of Aziraphale's plate and chewed it thoughtfully. "So, I heard things didn't go well with the Franciscans."

The angel groaned, and sunk his chin in his hands. "No. I did my best to mediate, but it was a disaster9."

"Well, at least you got William of Ockham and his friends out," the demon reminded him.

"Yes, that's true." The scholar had left Avignon under Aziraphale's protection, and had taken refuge with the Holy Roman Emperor in Bavaria.

"Clever fellow," the demon commented. "I like his ideas about keeping church and state matters separate10. And the order still exists, of course."

" _Technically_ ," Aziraphale sighed. "But Francis would hardly recognize most of the groups that bear his name, now."

Crowley stole another sliver of fish. "Hmm. I would have thought that point would have come when they agreed to take part in the inquisitions11."

The angel winced. "Some of them, yes. Don't remind me."

For a while, they drank in silence. "So, what have you been up to?" Aziraphale inquired at last.

Crowley shrugged. "Traveling. To warmer places than this, fortunately."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I was at the court of Mansa Musa in Mali for a bit. Heard of him?"

The angel nodded eagerly. "Of course. I've been meaning to find time to go to Timbuktu. I hear the library he established there is the largest since Alexandria12."

"Mmmhmm. You should. Anyway, I joined him on his pilgrimage to Mecca. Well, part of the way. I didn't go _in_ , obviously; made my excuses and slipped off once we reached Cairo. Encouraged him to give away as much gold as possible along the way."

Aziraphale frowned. "Why? Isn't that, well, _good_?"

"Eh, generally," the demon conceded. "It was good for _his_ soul, and usually helpful to the beggars and such at the time. You can add that to _your_ tally, if you like, and if your head office doesn't know you weren't there at the time. But he had so much gold that between the charity and his regular traveling expenditures he crashed the value of it from Tunisia to Medina. _Massive_ inflation, and all the issues that come with that. Excellent for a bit of chaos13. That's the bit _I_ get to claim."

Crowley waved over a server to bring them more drinks. Wine was a bit hard to come by up here, unfortunately, but a hot ale was nice enough, given the weather. "Came back through El Andalus. In what used to be called Hispania, you know. Remind me to tell you about that - I think you'd like it there."

"Was that why you didn't answer the last three letters I sent you? You just went wandering around without telling me your forwarding address?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry about that. No, I got the first one and was planning on just responding in person. But then I got...detained."

"Detained."

The demon grimaced. "I don't want to talk about it. Tell me about this Bridget woman you've been working with."

Aziraphale brightened. "Oh, yes, a remarkable lady. I was assigned to send her visions of the nativity and such but she had some other excellent ideas I've been helping along as well. I've promised to escort her down to Rome to seek official approval for her new order."

"Rome? Isn't the pope still in Avignon?"

"Yes, well, she's hoping to petition for his return as well."

Crowley raised his eyebrows. "Hmm. Well, good luck to you both, then. You'll need it14."

A letter blew out of the fireplace and into Crowley's hands. No one else in the tavern seemed to notice. The demon grimaced, but he opened it. "Urrgh. Your protegeé might want to postpone her trip."

Aziraphale's brow crinkled. "Why, what's happened?"

"Pestilence's new project, that's what's happened. It's already hit India, Syria, Persia, and Armenia. And it just set sail for Genoa."

_ England, 1349 _

The plague, which many were coming to call the "black death" after the purple and black blotches it left upon victims' skin, was worse than any epidemic Crowley had witnessed in his more than 5000 years on earth. The sufferers first developed a fever. Shortly thereafter many vomited, and developed large swellings and sores in the neck and armpits signaling the swift approach of death. A few recovered, but so many died - a between a third and a half of every affected population - that the bodies piled up in and around churches. Towns ran out of consecrated ground to bury them in, and resorted to digging large pits on the outskirts where, in the macabre words of one Italian chronicler, bodies and dirt were layered like cheese in a lasagna.

That is, if there were any able-bodied folk left willing and able to bury them. In some places, all the healthy fled for the hills, leaving the sick and dying to rot in their homes. The pope consecrated the Rhone river, so that the dead dumped in it could still hope to enter heaven15. For lack of laborers, crops went ungathered and bread unbaked, fueling the return of famine. The disease ate away at the structures of authority, as doctors, priests, and magistrates died at nearly as high a rate as peasants. It seemed to many that the apocalypse was at hand.

In response, many folk decided to follow the maxim of "eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die." They gambled and caroused, distracting themselves from the terror of the plague, holding parties in abandoned mansions that were now treated as common property. The demon encouraged them in this, though there was little pleasure in such temptations.

He wasn't the only one feeling depressed and overwhelmed.

"It's too much," Aziraphale confessed, hands shaking around the mug of mulled wine the demon handed him. "I do what I can, but it's never enough. I'm only allowed five healing miracles a week. There were over 400 who fell ill last week in London alone. That means as many as a hundred and fifty of them will be dead by next week."

Crowley frowned, taking in Aziraphale's hollow-eyed look. "You need to rest, Angel."

"I _can't_. You've seen what's happening."

The demon nodded. If truth be told - and it wouldn't be, not if he could help it - he'd been making his own efforts. He sloshed the hot spiced wine around his mouth, trying to wash away the taste of rat16.

"Aren't you supposed to be looking after their souls, though?" he suggested. "What about spending your efforts countering some of the weird shit that my lot think I've been promoting?" All over Europe, flagellant cults had sprung up that hoped to ward off God's wrath with self-punishment and, worse, pogroms fueled by rumors that Jews had poisoned the wells, even though they too were dying.

"Yes, I've been working on that, too. There's no limit on encouraging patience, faith, and compassion, after all."

The angel was currently dressed in a monkish habit. It must indeed have lifted the spirits of suffering communities to see at least one man17 of God who would minister to them without fear.

"But I can't simply ignore the loss of life," Aziraphale continued in an agitated tone. "How much knowledge and skill is being lost, how many families and communities shattered?"

Crowley nodded thoughtfully. "This isn't actually the end, is it?"

"I don't think so. I've not heard anything from my people."

"Me neither. No antichrist delivery or anything. And if that's the case... They'll put things back together, Angel. Humans always do, no matter what God or Satan or nature throw at them."

Aziraphale had nodded gloomily at that, but Crowley knew he wouldn't stop pushing himself, and resolved to keep a closer eye on his friend.

His instinct was proved correct when he found the angel slumped over in the corner of a plague-stricken house. Formerly plague-stricken, anyway - Crowley could sense the health returning to the man and woman who lived there. He touched Aziraphale's brow, and frowned. The angel was alive, but his ethereal light was dim and his bodily form weak. "Bless it, Angel, are you trying to discorporate yourself?" the demon muttered, as he picked his friend up in preternaturally strong arms and miracled open the door. He carried him all the way back to his room above Fleet Street. It was a stark place, but adequate enough for the demon's purposes. And, like all of Crowley's residences, it had as comfortable a bed as could be procured without comment given the time and place. He laid the angel down carefully on the mattress, which was thinner than one might find in finer residences, but was at least stuffed with feathers instead of straw.

Aziraphale's eyes fluttered open. "Crowley?"

"Hush, Angel. You need to sleep."

"I don't sleep. Virtue is...ever vigilant."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. But if you don't rest, that body is going to break down. And how can you keep doing good for these people if you're stuck filling out paperwork to get a new one?"

Aziraphale nodded wearily. Then his eyes snapped open again. "Wait. That house..."

"The man and his wife are going to be fine," Crowley said soothingly, "You fixed them."

"Yes, but...there were two children upstairs. I...I didn't get to them."

Crowley sighed. _Bastard angel - You know my weak spot, don't you?_ "Don't worry, I'll do it. Just _stay here_ 'til I get back."

He did the job, explaining to the parents that Brother Fell had sent him with a tonic for the children. When he returned, he found a letter shoved halfway under the door. He sat down at the small table in the corner and opened it.

_My friend,_

_It seems strange to write, as any letter I send may prove to be addressed to the dead. This strange pestilence has carried off so many - among them, alas, that sweet lady who was my heart's inspiration. We who are mortal must bear these things, and I cannot doubt but that bright soul now moves the songs of angels. But it is hard to be left behind. I know that you, if you yet live, will understand, and I pray that you - and your angel - are more fortunate._

_Francesco Petrarca_

It seemed, however, that the scholar's grief had not entirely drowned inspiration, for there was another sonnet enclosed, written in a shaky hand:

 _Those_ _eyes, ’neath which my passionate rapture rose,  
the arms, hands, feet, the beauty that erewhile  
could my own soul from its own self beguile,  
and in a separate world of dreams enclose,_

_The hair’s bright tresses, full of golden glows,  
and the soft lightning of the angelic smile  
that changed this earth to some celestial isle,—  
are now but dust, poor dust, that nothing knows._

_And yet I live! Myself I grieve and scorn,  
left dark without the light I loved in vain,  
adrift in tempest on a bark forlorn;_

_Dead is the source of all my amorous strain,_  
_dry is the channel of my thoughts outworn,_  
_and my sad harp can sound but notes of pain._

Crowley swallowed hard, and glanced over at the sleeping angel...the closest thing to a piece of heaven that a demon like him would ever know. As torturous as his hopeless love could be, what indeed would this world be worth without that, without him? Neither of them need fear this plague, thank Someone. But there were other threats. Discorporation was the least of it, even if that might take them away from earth for years. The angel might perhaps get recalled to heaven, with some other - some common, priggish, holier-than-thou angel - sent to take his place. And then there was the other thought, the one he always tried to avoid: that in trying to be near the angel, _he_ was the real danger. He waved a hand, and wards against any hostile occult or ethereal being painted themselves across the doorstep. _No. I_ will _protect you. Even from myself._

Aziraphale stirred. "Crowley?"

"I'm here, Angel."

The angel blinked at the unfamiliar room, and then glanced down at the quilted blanket that covered him. "Er, am I in..."

Crowley sighed elaborately. "Yeah. But don't make it weird, all right? I wasn't sure where you were staying. And, knowing you, _your_ bed is probably more of an auxiliary bookshelf anyway."

"I should get up."

The demon crossed his arms and glared over the top of his glasses. " _No_ , you _shouldn't_. Relax. I'll handle things for the next day or two. The Arrangement, remember?"

Aziraphale sank back against the pillows. His light had brightened up a bit, but he still looked like he'd been hit with a plank. "I still owe you from the last time."

"It's fine." The angel was terrible at temptation anyway - at least the deliberate sort. But Crowley did still have to let him try from time to time to keep up the pretense of The Arrangement's purpose.

"But if hell found out you'd been doing _my_ job..."

"They won't." The demon's heart swelled. Was the angel actually worried about _him_ , too? "There's always plenty of creative human evil to claim on my reports."

Aziraphale's eyes closed again, and he nodded. "Just...do be careful, dear boy.18"

_ 1349-1380 _

The plague subsided at the end of 1349, and the next year Aziraphale had fulfilled his promise to escort Bridget of Sweden to Rome19. Once the disease began to wane, many of the surviving peasants realized something interesting - with the shortage of workers, they had actually had bargaining power. Of course, the lords tried to quash that idea; Edward III of England, for instance, capped wages at 1330's levels. That did not go over well. Revolts flared up here and there across Europe over the next twenty years, with the Jacquerie revolt in France, fueled by resentment about the looting carried out by the mercenary bands employed by the warring French and English kings, being particularly brutal.

In response, Aziraphale had returned north to try and inspire the rulers of those countries to end their conflict. When in 1360 they signed the treaty of Brétigny, Crowley was happy to toast his success. That bright spot didn't last long, though. The plague returned that year, only slightly less deadly than before, and by 1369 Edward had decided that he did, in fact, still want to be king of France.

The angel was almost weeping with frustration, so Crowley suggested he go to Florence for a while. "They're trying out some really interesting stuff down there, Angel. They've revived the idea of a republic, for one, and there's lots of folks ready to discuss old books - you know you like that."

Aziraphale _tsked_ , but the demon could see he was tempted. "I don't have time for a vacation, Crowley."

"What about doing a bit of artistic inspiration, then? Old Master Petrarch put me in touch with a fellow named Boccaccio."

"The one who wrote that book of a hundred tales that the young ladies and gentlemen are supposedly telling to each other while they wait out the plague?"

Ah, _now_ the angel's interest was piqued. "That's the one! Well, I hear he's working on a set of biographies of famous women. I know you agree the ladies don't get enough respect and attention. Now's your chance to help remedy that."

~

The two hadn't seen much of each other since. In the early 1370s, Crowley was instructed to pay a visit to Tenochtitlan. He'd been quite curious to do so, despite the annoyance of having to take the downstairs route to get there20. He'd only paid two or three visits to the region since the Beginning, but had been rather flattered when he popped in some four hundred years ago and found that one of the most popular local gods was a feathered serpent, said to be the patron of knowledge and involved in the creation of humanity21. The city itself had been founded in the middle of a lake some forty-five years earlier by a wandering tribe called the Mexica. Crowley was impressed by the engineering prowess on display, the swampy island nucleus of the settlement having been gradually transformed into a series of dry platforms, canals, and causeways, rather like a sub-tropical Venice.

"They're doing fascinating stuff with feathers and jade," he remarked to Aziraphale when they did manage to meet up briefly in Paris in 1379. "And look at this!"

The demon handed over a square object.

Aziraphale's eyes lit up. "Oh! Is that..." He took it reverently. The square unfolded into a long bark-paper rectangle covered in pictures and symbols.

Crowley grinned. "A book, yeah. Mind you, the Mexica didn't invent them - very quick to pick up on a good idea, though. More like early Egyptian pictograms than a full verbal narrative, but thought you might be interested."

"Crowley, it's beautiful! You didn't have to... Wait." The angel squinted hard at the paintings. "Is that little fellow _holding someone's heart_?"

The demon shifted awkwardly. "Ah. Well. That's the thing, y'see. The leaders over there are getting as bad as _this_ lot. They've managed to convince people that the sun will go dark or the earth will eat their feet without human sacrifice22. And you know what's good for getting sacrificial victims? War." He sighed. "At least they've left my avatar mostly out of that part of the mythology. Anyway. What's been going on around here?"

It was Aziraphale's turn to look awkward. "Oh. Let's see...there's a fellow named Timur - Tamerlane they call him around here - who's been causing quite the commotion in the east. And, um, I believe the Emperor of China has been negotiating with Japan to put a stop to piracy between their coasts..."

"Mmmhm. Sure there's not something interesting that just happened closer to here...?"

Aziraphale glared at the grinning demon. "Oh, bother. Why are you asking if you clearly already know?"

"Because it's bloody hilarious, Angel. Come on... Two popes? One just south of here in Avignon, one in Rome, each excommunicating each other? Tell me that's not the best farce this century."

More recently, Crowley had been working on a project of his own. The peasant uprisings of France and Estonia had fizzled out quickly; they had been fueled by pure anger, with little organization. The one in Flanders had been more promising. It had support beyond the peasantry proper, and had controlled the area for five years, until the king of France re-established control. Perhaps, on an isolated island...well, the possibilities were interesting.

1\. As a former star-creator, Crowley was quite familiar with the properties of helium. He just couldn't find the right thing to put it in that was light enough to float but wouldn't let it escape. He hadn't explained this idea fully to anyone, not even Aziraphale. Inventing something that didn't do anything just because it was _fun_ was not very on-brand for a demon.Back

2\. From Crowley's point of view, anyway. The angel probably thought being surrounded by that many books was better than heaven - even if he'd never admit it.Back

3\. A series of cold rainy years between 1315 and 1317, the product of the Little Ice Age, disrupted agricultural production and led to the starvation of millions across the continent.Back

4\. These turned out to be: A) Having Dante's self-insert character be persuaded to walk through a wall of fire on the terrace of the lustful, B) The eyes of the envious being temporarily sewn shut with wire, and C) A complicated allegorical thing in the earthly paradise involving a chariot drawn by a griffon and a bunch of ladies and elders and winged beasts.Back

5\. Thongs used to secure a tame falcon.Back

6\. Later, the notes the students made regarding this incident would find their way into the hands of a proper conjurer, inconveniencing Crowley all over again. (See 'Synchronicity')Back

7\. A wine steeped with spices, usually served chilled.Back

8\. Zephar, like the other demons mentioned here, are listed with their specialties in the _Ars Goetica_.Back

9\. Four of the friars had been burned at the stake in 1318 for maintaining that Christ and his apostles held no property and insisting on following that example. More deaths followed when, in 1322, Pope John XXII had formally declared this opinion heretical.Back

10\. Though better known for 'Occam's Razor', this was arguably William of Ockham's more important contribution to human thought.Back

11\. The papal inquisition was originally established in the previous century to deal with Cathar heretics in the south of France. By the end of the 14th century, Spain and England were the only areas of Europe without an inquisitorial office.Back

12\. By the time of Mansa Musa's death in 1337 it had become a fully-fledged university with 25 thousand students and over a million manuscripts.Back

13\. Especially among those humans who actually _had_ gold to use, who were not the ones Crowley was most tempted to feel sorry for.Back

14\. Saint Bridget of Sweden became a third-order Franciscan after the death of her husband. Even as a noble lady, she was notable for her charity, particularly toward unwed mothers. She founded the Order of the Most Holy Savior, which had double monasteries with sections for both men and women. Members were to give all surplus income to the poor but were allowed to have as many books as they pleased.Back

15\. Hearing this, Crowley made a mental note to stay away from bodies of water near cathedrals.Back

16\. He hadn't been _eating_ the rats, mind you. He barely got hungry for human food. But Pestilence had let slip the connection between rats, fleas, and the disease. Not many rats want to hang around an area frequented by a large talking snake.Back

17\. Apparently.Back

18\. Some six and a half centuries later, when they could finally speak freely, Aziraphale remembered that day. The words of another 14th century poet, a Persian named Hafez, sprang to mind:

_Your love; Should never be offered to the mouth of a stranger; Only to someone; Who has the valor and daring; To cut pieces of their soul off with a knife; Then weave them into a blanket; To protect you_

It was fortunate, the angel reflected, that he had been following that advice, even if he didn't know it yet.Back

19\. She waited twenty years to see the pope. But she did become most beloved by the people of that city in the process.Back

20\. Dagon always managed to track him down and demand extra paperwork every blessed time he entered hell, but there was nothing for it - the place was too far away to reach by horse or even by boat.Back

21\. Actually, there were a fair number of groups around the world that honored a serpent of wisdom. This particular version just had about a millennium of staying power.Back

22\. The Aztecs held that earth itself was made out of the body of a sort of eldritch abomination that wasn't quite dead. Earthquakes were a sign that the thing might be waking up a bit and needed to be fed. And Huitzilopochtli, who was god of war and also the sun, also needed to be strengthened with blood sacrifice lest the sun go out and the world ended. At least, those were the stories that made it to the 1500s. The emperor Tlacaelel, in the early 1400s, seems to have emphasized Huitzilopochtli and the role of the Aztecs as "chosen people" more strongly, beginning the "flower wars" that were focused on capturing prisoners for sacrifice, and burning older history texts to disguise changes to the narrative.Back


	2. The Great Rising

_ England, May 1381 _

To properly foment a revolution, you need to know what people are already upset about. The main focus of unrest in England, besides the general discontent caused by famine, plague, and rising inequality, was the poll tax. This had been implemented by the last king - or, more accurately, his brother and advisor John of Gaunt - to help pay for his endless war with France. A property tax already existed, but most people did not meet the minimum threshold of £10-worth of property. Under the poll tax, however, every person over the age of 15 was to pay one groat into the king's treasury. However, the last two campaigns against France had been unsuccessful, and the poll tax kept increasing. By 1380 it had reached a shilling. To raise that amount, larger families often had to sell off their belongings. Or, of course, they could lie, and not pay. Robert Hales, the treasurer, and the Archbishop of Canterbury called for more aggressive measures to ensure the funds kept coming.

~~~

In Fobbing, Crowley sat in the local tavern, nodding sympathetically as the baker, whose name was Thomas, ranted angrily about the methods employed by the tax collectors. Apparently, under the excuse that folk had been lying about their kids' ages to avoid the tax, they'd been groping under girls' skirts to check if they had hair there yet, and knocking about any parents who objected.

Crowley didn't have to fake a frown at that. "You ought to lodge a complaint," he suggested. "That's a clear abuse of power, if anything is."

"Aye!" one of the other fellows clustered around their table agreed. "We shouldn't have to stand for such!"

"But what can we do about it?" someone else asked.

"I hear the tax commissioner is going to be in Brentwood next week," Crowley commented.

Thomas Baker banged his fist on the table decisively. "Well, that's it, then lads! We go down there and we make our grievance known."

"Aye, and what if he won't hear us?" the cautious one asked.

"Then we _make_ him hear us," Thomas Baker said grimly. "Who's with me?"

~~~

When the villagers from Fobbing confronted the commissioner, a John Bampton, the man responded patronizingly. Crowley could feel the smug Pride rolling off of him. So could the crowd, evidently, as more and more angry folk gathered around Thomas Baker, shouting their agreement with his complaints. Alarmed, the commissioner ordered that the instigators be arrested, only be driven out of town himself, barely escaping with his life. The villagers had come well prepared, either with sticks or with the bows every man was legally obliged to keep and practice with regularly.

The common folk were jubilant in their success. Thomas Baker, spotting the demon among the crowd, came up to clap him on the shoulder. "We showed him, eh Master Crowley?"

"So you did. But I should point out that probably won't be the end of it."

The baker looked grim. "Aye, we know. Master Crowley...you strike me as an educated man."

"Eh...self-taught, mostly. But I suppose so," the demon conceded.

"If you have a fair hand for writing, we were wondering if you might copy out a message."

Twenty minutes later, Crowley looked down at the words he'd scratched out in his angular, slightly spidery script:

_John Shep, sometime Saint Mary priest of York and now in Colchester, greeteth well John Nameless, and John Miller, and John Carter and biddeth Piers Plowman to go to his work, and chastize well Hobb the Robber._

He wondered about the first line, but Hobb the Robber was the peasant's nickname for Robert Hales, with the middle names seemingly referring to the working folk who were to do the "chastizing". 

"That's it?" he asked.

"Aye. I don't suppose you'd mind doing a copy? We've turned up some other clerks in the meantime, but..."

The demon's eyebrows arched up above his glasses. "Wh...How many of these letters are you sending?"

Thomas counted on his fingers for a moment. "Twelve."

Crowley considered this. Twelve somewhat-coded messages suggested at least twelve rebel enclaves already in waiting...that the baker knew of. He smiled to himself. _Clever humans - ahead of me as usual._

He finished the letters, with the assistance of a clerk who introduced himself as Simon of Rochester.

"And now?"

Thomas Baker eyed the horse Crowley had ridden in on. It was the only sort hell approved for its representatives: a big rangy black beast with a bad temper. But it was clearly fast, and that was what the rebels needed right now.

Crowley sighed. But this was the project he'd signed up for. "Right, then. Where am I going?"

Where he was going, apparently, was south, and across the Thames to Kent. The horse kicked up quite a fuss when the demon tried to get him on a boat, although it was somewhat surprised at the relatively modest reaction that one literal kick provoked. The kick had been, the horse considered, a well-aimed one; the skinny man with the odd smell ought to be curled on the ground whimpering, or possibly passed out. Having already banished any unnecessarily bruiseable bits of his corporation in the expectation of a long ride, Crowley merely let out a long hiss and swore colorfully for about half a minute. Then he grabbed the horse's bridle, pulled down his glasses a fraction and whispered: "Listen, mate. You try that again, and I'll feed yours to the hell hounds. While they're attached. Do I make myself clear?"

The horse stared back at those snake-like eyes and whinnied.

Crowley slid his glasses back into place. "Good. Now get on the boat. We've got a long way to go." 

Crowley's second stop was in Dartford, and he found his target up a ladder, tiling a roof.

"Are you Walter?"

The man turned around and eyed him skeptically. "Aye...?"

"Message for you."

He descended the ladder slowly and approached the demon with a cautious swagger. Crowley handed over the letter. The man opened it without hesitation - he could read, if a bit slowly. As he reached the end, his eyes brightened.

"It's actually happening, then, is it?"

Crowley shrugged casually. "Well, _something_ is happening. What it is, whether you get involved...that's up to you I suppose." He eyed the man carefully. There was something about this one... "But, I think you'd agree it's time to teach the bastards a lesson. Wouldn't you, Master Walter?"

"Watt. My friends call me Watt. And you must be a friend, bringing news like this, Master..."

"Crowley." The demon tipped his head and surveyed the tiler. He was a stocky fellow, and there was a fire in him, a surety, that his previous letter recipient had lacked. "Hmm. Well, I have one more message to deliver. But I trust I'll see you again, Watt Tyler."

~~~

Things escalated quickly after that. Back up in Essex, another tax officer had marched a small army on Brentwood. But enough commoners had gathered that that confrontation ended in the beheading of six of the king's men. The rest fled. Further north in Bocking, a rebel group drafted a manifesto, declaring that it was their aim to destroy "diverse lieges of the king" - advisors of the 14-year-old monarch that they held were corrupting him and ignoring the expected social contracts - and, further, that they would have no laws in England but "those they themselves moved to be ordained".

~~~

On June 7th, Crowley was sitting under a tree outside Maidstone, having a drink with a disaffected wine merchant, a pair of local yeomen farmers, and a woman named Joan, who was head of a weaving collective, when he sensed a familiar presence.

"...and you see, Master Crowley," Joan was saying, "we have heard that the king's uncle means to usurp the authority of the Lord Mayor of London. Well, the guilds there are up in arms about it, and no wonder..."

"No wonder..." But the demon wasn't really listening anymore. Instead, he was stretching out his occult senses, trying to get a fix on that bright spot.

It had been a busy day. The rebels had marched into Maidstone to the enthusiastic response of the locals, who were tired of sending their money and menfolk to fight a war in France that had no benefit to them. They had sprung quite a few people out of the local gaol, burned tax records as usual, and finally elected an overall leader of the revolt. Had the angel been around for all that? Well, whether he had or not, he was currently right behind Crowley. The demon turned around, attempting to look casual.

Yes...that was Aziraphale, talking to a thin man in a threadbare priest's robe. The angel was dressed neither in monkish habit nor the silks and embroidery that - Crowley was sure - he secretly enjoyed when employed at some high court. His cote of undyed wool and loose brown leggings would not have looked out of place on a simple ploughman, though Aziraphale's well-fed-looking corporation, fussy mannerisms, and ability to remain immaculately clean while standing in a muddy field did not quite fit that image. Crowley was wondering whether to go say hello or duck out of sight when the angel turned around and spotted him. Aziraphale's jaw dropped1. Then his eyes turned steely.

"Excuse me a moment," the demon sighed, standing up to intercept him.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Aziraphale demanded, as Crowley drew him aside.

The demon waved his arms, indicating the crowd of rebels. " _I'm_ making trouble. Obviously. What about _you_?"

The angel got that look he always did when trying to explain how his actions fit the spirit of the law, if not the letter. "Er. Promoting ideas of a more egalitarian form of government that will hopefully alleviate the suffering of the poor?"

The demon raised an eyebrow. "Huh. That's a mouthful. Got a particular protegeé for that plan?"

Aziraphale nodded his head at the man he'd been talking to. "John Ball. He was incarcerated here, you see. He's...well, he _was_ a priest up in York, though he rather got himself in trouble with his ideas."

Suddenly, the first line of that letter Crowley had been passing around made sense: _John Shep_ \- the shepherd - _sometime Saint Mary priest of York._

"I've been...encouraging him," Aziraphale continued. "Looking out for him as he travels around. What are you..."

The demon held up a hand, noticing a shifting in the ranks. "Hang on. Looks like we're on the move. Have you got a horse?"

Aziraphale's mount was a mild little tan-colored ambler. Crowley eyed it enviously from atop his bony bad-tempered horse. The ambler's smooth gait made the angel look like he was drifting along on a cloud2. Crowley tried to ignore the jouncing that was already making his back hurt.

"What were we talking about? Oh, yeah - protegeés. Did you see that fellow they elected leader? Watt Tyler? Has a lot of righteous anger, that one. Honestly, though, so do most of this lot; they didn't really need any encouragement from me to rebel."

"Righteous anger isn't a sin," the angel pointed out. "Why else do you think _I'm_ involved?"

"Yeah, true," the demon conceded with a shrug, "But it isn't that big a step into Wrath. And Watt's got a good bit of Pride. This sort of thing has a tendency to spiral a bit, you know."

"Well, I shall just have to see that it doesn't," Aziraphale said firmly.

Crowley eyed the angel sideways. "Why didn't you _tell_ me about this?" _Don't sound so petulant about it_ , he scolded himself. He cleared his throat and continued in a more neutral tone. "You said you were going to tell me about your assignments so we didn't end up wasting our time interfering with each other."

Aziraphale cleared his throat nervously. "Ah. Yes. About that..."

Crowley grinned. "This wasn't an assignment, was it? This is like going above and beyond with trying to cure the plague. Not to mention the thing with the sword."

"It is _not_ , and I do wish you would stop bringing that up. It was _one_ sword."

"One _flaming_ sword. You just decided to get involved all on your own. Again."

Aziraphale gave the demon a look of infinite annoyance. "Well, you didn't inform me, either."

"Mmm, yeah. Thing is..." _I really shouldn't be saying this_ , Crowley thought. But... "The thing is, I was planning to wait until it was all over to see if I needed to write it up as one of yours or one of mine."

The angel's jaw dropped. Then he beamed. "Crowley! You really thought this might actually be..."

" _Don't_ say it," the demon growled. "All I'm saying is: you just never know how this sort of thing is going to turn out, with humans. I mean, look at Cain and Abel. I point out how it isn't fair that the Almighty favors Abel's sheep over Cain's basket of fruit and veg. I figure, oh, maybe that'll trigger a bit of Envy, a bit of bickering. What do I get? A commendation for the first murder! But on the other hand... Well, like you said. These folk are right to be angry. And if they succeed there's some chance the results might be, er..."

"Good?" Aziraphale's grey eyes twinkled.

The demon gave a sharp nod. "Can't have anyone thinking I'm involved with nonsense like _that_ , after all."

They rode on a while in silence. When Crowley next glanced over at the angel, he noticed that he looked rather grave. "What?"

"I...I do hope this isn't going to get _too_ ugly." He nodded his head at impromptu army. Some of the rebels were on horseback, many more on foot. What with the decades of war with France, many had proper weapons - longbows and pikes and swords - and knew how to use them. Others carried threshing flails, pruning billhooks or scythe-blades forged to end of poles, quarterstaffs, and cudgels. About one in ten of those carrying these sorts of weapons were women. They might not have been trained in war, but a sturdy farm wife could certainly do some serious damage with a flail.

Crowley sighed. He'd like to be able to say 'don't worry', but... "It'll probably have to, Angel. At least a bit. These folk can't just stroll up unarmed and go: 'Could you lower our taxes a bit, pretty please?' Those lords and knights don't mess about. They wouldn't balk at slaughtering everyone here, you know that."

Aziraphale looked queasy. "I know. It's just...I've seen human battles. But I've tried not to be directly involved in any wars. Not since...well. You know."

Ah. Nice of the angel not to say it. There was really only one War for them - the first one3.

"You probably don't have to be, not really." After all, no one had commented yet on the fact that the angel wasn't carrying a weapon. Crowley had a sword, but it had mostly been for show so far; he wouldn't mind keeping it that way either. And besides... "Did you know this lot already took Rochester castle? In a day?"

Aziraphale's jaw dropped. "You're joking!"

"Nope."

"But that place has walls twelve feet thick at the base! It once held off the king's army for seven weeks!"

Crowley grinned at him. "Didn't have to besiege it. The bailiff opened the door. Turns out he was on our side."

Aziraphale looked skeptical. "Hmm. Well, I don't think we should expect _that_ to keep happening!"

~

In the evening, some of the rebels found lodging in the nearest village, but most rested out in the open field. After a brief struggle to dismount and tie up his horse without getting thrown or dragged into the mud4, Crowley turned around to see Aziraphale fussing over a pile of branches.

"Angel, what are you doing?"

"What does it _look_ like I'm doing? Trying to set up a campfire for us."

_For us._ Crowley's scarred heart did a little pirouette at that phrase. Though of course it didn't _mean_ anything, he scolded himself. They'd been traveling together all day, after all, and over the years they'd shared a drink or a meal in front of hundreds of fires. Just not a fire they'd made for themselves, as the angel's amateurish efforts illustrated.

"That wood looks awfully damp, Angel. You're going to have to miracle it if you want that lot to light."

"I'm _trying_ not to stand out to the humans," Aziraphale replied - a man-shaped being trying to get a spark to catch on perfectly green hazel leaves.

"Tell you what...why don't I take care of that." When he noticed that look that suggested Aziraphale wasn't sure whether to agree gratefully or insist that he could handle things on his own, Crowley added: "You can look after the horses."

The angel brightened. "Oh, thank you, dear boy! You don't mind?"

"Nope. You're better with animals. And I'm more used to fire. Just a practical division of labor, innit?"

Once the angel was busy whispering soothing things to the horses, undoing their saddles and brushing them down, Crowley surreptitiously removed the leafy branches from the pile and replaced them with some more suitable ones, then sorted the lot into a neat pyramidal shape. He breathed on the wood, miraculously drying it and - after a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching - conjured a spark from his finger to light it. When Aziraphale finished with the horses, he found two blankets laid out beside a cheerily crackling fire - not too close, but close enough to talk comfortably without being overheard. The demon was sprawled out on one and, when he noticed the approaching angel, waved what appeared to be a wineskin in a welcoming manner. The slightly bashful delight plainly visible on the angel's face made Crowley's heart do another little twirl.

~~~

They reached Canterbury two days later, and Aziraphale proved to be both correct and incorrect. He was incorrect in his pessimism about getting through fortifications, as the rebels entered the walled city without meeting any resistance. But while the rebel leaders, Watt Tyler in particular, proved quite effective at keeping their troops focused on their mission - rather than, for example, looting random buildings or terrorizing the citizenry - that mission was not entirely _nice_. One group burst into Canterbury cathedral in the middle of high mass, demanding that the archbishop be deposed and John Ball put in his place. Archbishop Sudbury was away, but another group of rebels devoted themselves to hunting down people with links to the hated royal council and executing them5. Others freed prisoners from the gaol or burned the green-sealed tax records.

Toward the end of the day, a rider arrived with a message for the other rebel leaders. Watt Tyler read it, and his face lit up.

"What does it say?" someone inquired.

"Sudbury is in London, but our brothers in Essex are marching south, toward the capitol. If we turn west..." he made a claw with his finger and thumb, "we can pinch these treasonous lords like a flea. So...who's with me?"

The momentum of the thing was intoxicating. Who could doubt but that God was truly on the side of the people of England6? Several thousand marched out the next day, with Watt Tyler and John Ball at their head, and their numbers only grew as they traveled and word of the rebellion spread.

~~~

It was a three day trip to London, even for those on horseback. The rebels settled into a routine: ride ten miles; pause for an hour or two to rest the horses, rally any local supporters, and allow those on foot to catch up a bit; ride another ten miles; then camp for the night.

On the first night, Aziraphale and Crowley were joined at their campfire for a while by Joan, the weaver from Maidstone. Aziraphale politely offered her some cheese in exchange for the ale she had brought to share.

"Thank you kindly, Master Fell." She eyed them thoughtfully as she ate. "If you'll pardon my question...What's the story with you two?"

Aziraphale looked puzzled, and possibly slightly alarmed. "Excuse me?"

"Well, so far as I knew, you came from Essex, Master Crowley," she said, turning to the demon. "You said you took up with Master Tyler when you brought him a message from the north. Master Fell was in Maidstone, and you seemed surprised to see each other. But since then, can't say I've seen one of you without the other. So I was just curious how you knew each other before, seeing as you plainly do."

_Oh dear._ So much for the angel's usual protestations that they didn't know each other, and a claim that they were colleagues or business rivals would just invite further question. So that left only one option, even if the angel wasn't going to like it. "Ah, we're just..."

"Brothers," Aziraphale said suddenly.

Crowley was very glad of his dark glasses, as otherwise his surprise and confusion probably would have been as obvious as Joan's.

"Really?" she asked doubtfully, clearly comparing the short, fair-haired, slightly plump figure to the tall, rangy one with the auburn curls - and echoing Crowley's thought exactly.

"Well...we have the same Mother," Aziraphale clarified.

Joan brightened. "Oh! _Half_ -brothers!"

"Yup. Red-headed step-child, that's me," Crowley added helpfully. "Always been a bit of the black sheep of the family, to be honest."

"Yes, well. We ended up in...different places," Aziraphale said brightly. "But I did promise Mother I'd try to keep this one out of trouble7."

"That's rich!" Crowley snorted. "As I recall, _you're_ usually the one who needs rescuing."

Joan chuckled. "Ah, I see it now! Well, I think that's _very_ sweet. I'm sure you'll do your mother proud." At the moment, she sounded so sweet and motherly herself, that Crowley could almost forget he'd seen her push a lawyer out of a window in Canterbury. Humans - it was always difficult to pin them down, wasn't it?

~

As they halted on the second day, they were approached by Watt Tyler.

"Ah, Brother Fell. Can you spare a moment? We are drawing up our demands for the king, and Brother John Ball says you give wise counsel."

Aziraphale beamed at him. "Of course, my dear chap! Just let me see to the horses and I'll be right with you."

"It's all right A...Abel," Crowley said, just barely remembering the first name Aziraphale had used this time. "I can do it." It stung a little not to be invited, but far be it from him to keep the angel from a learned discussion.

"Actually, Brother Crowley, you should come too," Watt added. "You seem a clever man as well."

_Ha! Take that!_ Crowley thought, though he wasn't sure who he was talking to. Possibly no one but the internal voice that said of _course_ anyone with sense would always pick an angel, especially one as charming as Aziraphale, over any demon.

When they arrived at the meeting, they found a cluster of about fifteen people, twelve men and three women. Besides Watt Tyler and John Ball, Crowley recognized the wine merchant from Maidstone, whose name had slipped his mind at the moment.

The renegade priest nodded at them. "Now that you are here...Master Paul, will you read out the demands once more?"

The scribe cleared his throat. "Right. Here's what we have so far. Point one: That all bonded labour in England be abolished immediately8.

Point two: That the poll tax be abolished, and that any future tax be moderated by the payer's means."

All present nodded. Those two were obvious. The poll tax and the control on wages and movement of workers had been the chief complaints from the beginning.

"Point three: That all be allowed to sell the work of their hands when and where they will, without hindrance.

Point four: That land rent be reduced to four pence per acre."

The young clerk looked up at the assembled leadership.

"That's a bit specific, but not objectionable," Aziraphale commented.

"Don't you have any other big ones?" Crowley inquired.

Watt Tyler snorted. "Aye, but no one's agreed to them yet. _I_ think we should insist on the Law of Winchester."

Crowley looked inquiringly at Aziraphale.

"Umm...something to do with villages being self-ruling, isn't it?" the angel hazarded.

"That's right," Watt confirmed. "If London and Canterbury can have mayors and run much of their own business, why shouldn't every other community do the same?"

"Master Walter, it's just too much!" protested the wine merchant.

"I don't see why," the demon interjected. "After all, there's plenty of village folk and serfs here, present company included, and they're doing a perfectly fine job of organizing themselves."

The wine merchant turned to Aziraphale, perhaps hoping that this more refined-looking person would agree with him.

"I'm inclined to agree with my brother," the angel replied. "Why _shouldn't_ villages be in charge of local matters?"

"Because the lords will never stand for it, that's why!"

"Bollocks to your lords," Watt Tyler growled.

John Ball nodded. "Distinctions among men are artificial, as our Lord teaches." He was a rather thin, rangy man with an intense expression. Despite being kicked out of the church, he had kept his tonsure as well as his robes.

The merchant sighed. "Right. Fine. Add it to the list, then."

"I've got a demand to add," a woman said hotly. "The heads of Hobb the Robber, Simon Sudbury, and all such traitors."

"Johanna!" the merchant said, looking outraged, but several people, Watt Tyler included, nodded in agreement.

"Well, now, that might be a bridge too far," Aziraphale suggested in his 'let's be reasonable, dear chap' voice. "I agree they have behaved badly. But should they not, in fairness, be given a chance to speak in their own defense?"

"Wisely put," John Ball replied. "Master Paul, put down: 'Point six: That corrupt officials, including Robert Hales and Simon Sudbury, be brought to justice to answer for their crimes.'"

Crowley cleared his throat. "Er, speaking of trials and such...have you considered asking for a general amnesty?" As several people looked puzzled, the demon added: "That means a clause where you all can't be arrested or harmed for revolting in the first place."

Watt Tyler brightened. "Aye! Write that down, Brother Paul. Well thought of, Brother Crowley!"

The demon shrugged. "Not a problem. I know a good bit about complicated contracts and avoiding loopholes."

~

On the third day, before the morning march, John Ball stood up in front of the ragtag army. He must have become accustomed to outdoor preaching in his wanderings, as when he spoke his voice projected almost to the back of the great throng. "Tell me, my friends: When Adam delved and Eve spun, who then was the gentleman?"

There was a murmur in the crowd. "No one!" someone shouted.

"Yes, my brothers and sisters: no one! Then why are we told that God ordained for lords to rule over all working folk? If God would have had any bondmen from the beginning, he would have appointed who should be bond, and who free. Yet this was not so. And what did our Lord Christ command us? That any who has two coats must share with one who has none, for no one can serve both God and Wealth. To beware of hypocritical priests, who love to have the seat of honor yet neglect justice and the love of God. And is it not said of the first disciples, 'All who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need'9."

Crowley glanced over at the angel. Aziraphale's eyes were closed. Humans sometimes thought angels and demons put ideas in their heads. That was actually not possible...except in the normal way, by persuasive conversation. But they _could_ give a boost to what was already there. Aziraphale was, Crowley suspected, lending a bit of extra energy to Ball, giving a nudge to his courage, blessing his lips so his words did not falter. The demon could almost see the glow of Inspiration emanating from him. _Stars, you're beautiful like this_.

Up on the hill, John Ball continued to preach. "Think how ill these gentlemen have used us! They have wines, spices and fine bread, when we have only rye and if we drink, it must be water. They have handsome seats and manors, when we must brave the wind and rain in our labours in the field; but it is from our labour they have the wherewith to support their pomp. For this reason did our Lord say: 'It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God'."

Murmurs of agreement rustled through the crowd like wind through a forest canopy. "Amen, brother!" someone shouted.

"Good people," Ball thundered, "Things will not go well in England, so long as goods be not in common, and so long as there be villeins and gentlemen. If God's kingdom shall ever be made on earth, then it must be that we are ruled by none but God, and by the love we have for one another. When there shall be neither vassal nor lord; when all distinctions shall be leveled; when the lords shall be no more masters than ourselves."

The shouts of agreement grew louder and more enthusiastic.

"Brothers and sisters," the hedge priest concluded, "let us go to the young king, and remonstrate with him on our servitude, telling him we must have it otherwise, or that we shall find a remedy for it ourselves. Now is the time appointed to us by God, in which we may, if we will, cast off the yoke of bondage, and recover our liberty!"

The people roared their approval, waving caps and spears and banners.

"For King Richard and the true commons of England!" someone shouted, and phrase was taken up and adopted as a slogan.

~

That evening, they halted within sight of the city walls. Joan Webster10 had once again joined Crowley and Aziraphale at their campfire, and was expressing her enthusiasm for the work of the morning.

"I take it you think our chances of success are good?" Crowley inquired.

"Oh, aye. Why, look at how the whole country is rising up to support us - in Cambridgeshire, Suffolk, even as far as Lincolnshire! I'm sure that if we can make the severity of our grievances known to the king, he will hear us and give us justice."

"Hmm. Just like that?" the demon said skeptically. "Have you seen any sign of such magnanimity from him?"

"Richard was ordained by God to be our king, and to look after his people. Once his wicked advisors are dealt with, he must surely see that." Joan hopped to her feet before the demon could reply. "Well, I should must be off. Thanks for the wine and for listening to me natter on!"

"But..." Crowley realized he was talking to the air. "But that's not how it works," he muttered.

"I suppose you mean the divine right thing?" Aziraphale inquired.

"Yes! Such a poisonous idea! 'Don't rebel against your lord or king - that's the same as rebelling against God. And we all know how _that_ turns out!'" The demon glowered. "Only lords and kings _aren't_ gods. They don't even have the bad excuse of 'I made you, so do what I say without question'. They _made it up_. That sounds an awful lot like blasphemy to me, claiming God's authority for yourself. But do I ever hear a peep out of one of your lot about it? Nooo...they just let it stand!"

"Not _all_ of the priests and such keep quiet about it," Aziraphale protested, "I mean, John Ball..."

"Oh, no! Most of them would _love_ to have all that authority for themselves. And those that _don't,_ that actually argue against unjust authority structures, get kicked out or murdered by the rest." Crowley knew he was probably getting too worked up, but once he started letting a few centuries-worth of pent-up anger at something out, it could be hard to stop. "But I didn't mean the _humans_. I meant Up There. I meant anyone who actually represents heaven ruffling a single wing feather over this nonsense idea that makes people put up with tyrants..."

"Why do you think I'm here, you blasted serpent!" Aziraphale almost shouted.

Crowley froze in the middle of his rant.

Aziraphale clapped a hand over his own mouth.

"Oh. Right." Crowley said in a quieter, more careful tone. "Sorry."

The angel cleared his throat. "No. Er. That is...I know you meant Gabriel, or Michael, or someone. And I...I did say I was doing this, um...unofficially."

"Look, I didn't mean..." Crowley rubbed a hand over his face. "You obviously _are_ a heavenly emissary. And you're doing this because it's the right thing." _Of course, if_ that's _the case_ I _really shouldn't be here_ , he added to himself.

Aziraphale huffed out a breath. "Well, I do hope so. We haven't been given any actual instructions on the matter, you see. So _maybe_ that means we ought to do nothing. But that doesn't square with some of the _other_ instructions, does it?"

"Mmm. I don't know if you should be asking _my_ opinion on it, Angel. Sorry I brought it up." The demon sprawled out on his blanket and closed his eyes, but then glanced up briefly as if checking if he was forgiven.

The angel smiled weakly. "Well, you always have had issues with unquestioned authority, as I recall. It just happens that, in this specific instance, I'm inclined to agree."

That night, as he pretended to sleep, Crowley contemplated Aziraphale's claim that they were brothers. He still wasn't quite sure how he felt about that. It was a closer choice of relationship than 'friend', which was the word he'd been reaching for. That was surprising and 'rather lovely', as Aziraphale would say. Of course, it did make some of _his_ thoughts feel a bit ickier than usual. Then again, if he considered how the angel had explained it - that they shared the same Mother - he had to wonder...did Aziraphale perhaps _not_ regard them as fundamentally different? Was that why he tolerated the presence of a demon? Did he see Crowley as if he were some wayward black sheep of an angel, but a sort of angel nonetheless? That thought ought to feel insulting, but it didn't. Not much, anyway; maybe the 'wayward' bit11. Their very first conversation had involved Aziraphale asking _him_ if he'd done the right thing. As if trusting that Crowley not only knew what was good - or at least had an opinion that was worth something - but would actually tell him the truth. Aziraphale had always played the loyal soldier. It hurt him, though, even if he tried not to let that show. He was cautious, yes, but he was full to the brim with thoughts, opinions, questions. Maybe they _weren't_ that different, after all. And oh, what a terrifying thought _that_ was! _Please don't be like me, Angel,_ Crowley thought fervently. _You don't deserve the price that comes with being like me._

~~~

By this time, the young king and his advisors had heard that tens of thousands of angry commoners were descending on London, and had retreated to the Tower of London. For a while, they dithered. The situation was unprecedented, and most of the army was away, fighting in France or at the Scottish border. At first, the lords sent out the Bishop of Rochester to plead with the rebels to return home, which they declared they would not do until the king heard their demands. Eventually, it was decided that the king would go out on June 13 to meet with the rebels, but would stay on a barge surrounded by four barges of soldiers for his safety.

This strategy was not a success. For one thing, the size of the army and the width of the river led to a lot of exchanges along the lines of:

"The king thanks you for your loyalty to him, and asks that you go home, and says that your concerns will be dealt with."

"What about Rome? We can't hear you!"

"THE KING SAYS GO HOME!"

"WHAT?"

Crowley muttered under his breath: "This is the stupidest negotiation I've ever seen."

The angel merely sighed heavily. The rebel leaders were attempting to shout their demands, but either the young king couldn't hear them clearly either, or was deliberately ignoring them.

The demon chewed his lip thoughtfully. "I could sink his boat."

" _Crowley_." Aziraphale gave him a sharp look. "I thought you objected to drowning minors."

"I didn't say I wanted to _drown_ him. I could just wash him up on this bank so he'd have to talk to us properly."

" _No_ , Crowley."

" _Fine_. But you mark my words...oh, look. There he goes." The barges were punting off in the direction of the tower.

"Now what?"

"At a guess - Tyler's going to try and take the city."

"Oh, Lord. Do you think he can?"

"Well, there's at least six times as many people inside London as out, but most of them aren't soldiers and some at least are going to be on our side. So...yeah, maybe."

~

The Kentish army marched onto London Bridge that same afternoon. Once again, the gates were opened from the inside.

As they rode across, Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley. "Are _you_ doing this?"

"Nope. Thought it might be you." They could hear cheering and from inside the city. "Huh. Guess there's just even more frustrated people in these parts than even I suspected, then."

The rebel army entered the city and surged through the center, one branch circling north to open Aldgate and let in their Essex bretheren. At this point, it had swelled to such an extent - the rebels from Kent and Essex being joined by a large number of sympathetic Londoners - that it was impossible for anyone on the ground to fully keep track of what they were all all doing. Angel and demon agreed to split up for the time being, to try to make sure things didn't go too pear-shaped.

In places, the rebels' actions remained extremely deliberate. Aziraphale reached the Savoy Palace just as the peasants prepared to sack it. This luxuriant building belonged to John of Gaunt; the rebels accused him of furnishing it by skimming off the poll tax he himself had instituted. Once inside, the rebels systematically demolished it. They started by shredding the soft furnishings, smashing silver plate, and crushing gems.

"What are they _doing_?" Aziraphale demanded.

"Making a point," Watt replied calmly. "We are not thieves and robbers - I have told them that any man caught stealing will be executed on the spot. It is this lord who is the thief, feathering his nest with the sweat of our brow. He must not be left with a stick of it."

While a part of him revolted against the destruction of beautiful things - each of which represented someone's patient labor in another way - the angel could see what they were getting at, and confined himself to arranging that no books other than government and tax records got burnt when the building was finally set afire.

In other places, things ran a bit more off the rails. Crowley had been spending most of the afternoon pointing out things that could be set fire to without taking the rest of the city with them. Lordly and government buildings were more apt than most to have a bit of space around them, but new recruits to the rebel cause could still get a bit over-enthusiastic with the torches. As he made his way along Upper Thames Street, he saw a group of men, presumably rebels, dragging other commoners out of a small church. A dozen already lay dead on the ground.

"Right, then - what is this?" a man in a green cote demanded of a quivering middle-aged fellow and his weeping wife, while another shoved a handful of bread and cheese in their faces.

"B..brot und kase," the older man stammered.

"Ha! Fleming filth!12"

Green-cote drew back his sword, preparing to strike, only to find his wrist caught and twisted in an iron grip.

"NO."

Green-cote grunted in pain and confusion. The red-haired fellow who had grabbed his arm looked far too skinny to exert that kind of force. His companion dropped the bread on the bloody ground and went to seize hold of the stranger. The stranger turned his head toward green-cote's companion, and pulled off his dark spectacles with his free hand. Neither Green-cote nor the Flemings could see his face, but they heard the noise he made, somewhere between a growl and a hiss. The other man went white and ran as if the devil was on his heels.

The stranger replaced his spectacles and turned back to Green-cote.

"Murder in a church, is it?" He spoke softly, and sniffed the air oddly. "Hmm. Motivated by greed and bigotry, no less. You know, if I slit your throat right now I bet could claim your soul no trouble." Green-cote gulped. The stranger had twisted his arm so that the point of the already-bloodied sword hovered an inch away from his own Adam's apple.

"My boss would like that," the man in the dark spectacles continued speculatively. "He says I ought to show more of a personal touch. Could probably claim all four of you if I wanted." There were three other members of Green-cote's gang, but like their would-be victims they were transfixed by the scene that was unfolding.

"B...Wh..."

"Lucky for you, though, there's an angel who thinks I'm better than that. So..."

The stranger plucked the sword out of Green-cote's hands and stepped back. He looked at the whole crew, and though his eyes were hidden they could _feel_ his stare. When he spoke, his voice seemed to bore directly into their brains: "These people are not your enemies. Either go home, or vent your frustrations on your actual oppressors. I don't care. But if I catch you harming anyone else out of some bigoted grudge I will chuck you into the Pit myself. _Capisce_?"

The crew of murderers nodded, wide-eyed.

"Good. Now GO."

They went, as fast as their legs could carry them. So did the Flemings, who retreated into the church and slammed the doors shut. Dragging sounds suggested the remaining congregants were barricading themselves inside with benches.

Well, that was a bit rude. But people tended to react poorly to seeing even a fraction of his infernal nature. Crowley tossed the bloody blade aside, and slouched off to find the rest of the rebels.

~~~

Crowley met up with Aziraphale later that evening at their camp site. The angel was staring at the city and the plumes of smoke rising from it with a rather haunted expression.

"Everything OK, Angel?"

Possibly Aziraphale had been spending too much time around the demon of late, as his reply was a collection of random syllables that, while definitely not a word, still managed to express quite a lot.

Crowley grunted, and sat down next to him. "Yeah, I know. Still hard to tell which way this one is going to break, isn't it?"

"It's..." Aziraphale managed to bring his brain and his mouth into alignment. "It's not just that. I do still hope this will 'break' to the side of good. But. Well. Either way, the process isn't...pleasant, is it?"

Crowley snorted. "No. Drastic change isn't, as a rule. It's like a...what's that thing humans build across rivers?"

"A bridge?"

"No, the one that _stops_ the water."

"A dam?"

The demon nodded. " _That's_ the one. Anyway, the way I see it, people's anger and frustration at the way things are builds up like water behind a dam. And when that dam breaks it sweeps away everything in front of it. Very hard to direct it, or keep it in its banks." He remembered the massacre at the church, and shivered slightly.

Aziraphale considered this. "I suppose what they need is a way to make sure changes happen a bit at a time. To avoid the...deluge."

"Mmm. Well, there are ways to do that. Trouble is, most of them can lead to focusing on painting the house while ignoring the rotting foundation. Remember what happened to the Roman republic?"

The angel sighed. "Well, I just hope the humans come up with a resolution to this _quickly_. I don't think the city can take many more days of this. There are already people using the revolt as an excuse for theft, and all manner of worse things."

He stood up and brushed himself off. "I ought to go have a word with Watt and John and the others. See if I can inspire them to help reign in the chaos."

"Good idea." Crowley hopped to his feet and began to walk decisively in the direction of the city.

"Where are _you_ going?"

"To exert some influence of my own, of course."

The angel looked suspicious - not so much at the demon's intent, as an angel probably ought to be, but at his likely methods. "Crowley..."

"See you later, Angel!"

The demon made his way back inside the city, and paused just outside the Tower of London. He looked up at the structure thoughtfully. It had been a few decades since he had been inside, but he remembered generally where the royal apartments had been. That should be close enough, unless young Richard was freaked out enough about all this to have made himself a panic room in the dungeon. Crowley made some adjustments to his appearance, and dematerialized.

~

"RICHARD."

The young king started at the commanding voice, and blinked against the sudden blaze of light. For a moment, it was hard to make out anything. Then he thought he could see a slim figure with long auburn curls, clothed in white robes.

"Wh...Who are you?"

"A messenger."

There were shadows moving behind the figure. Or...wings? Whatever they were they glittered, as if spangled with stars13.

"Richard, look at your kingdom."

And suddenly he was at a window, gazing down on the streets of London. The young king could see the smoldering flames from dozens of burning building, the the campfires of the rebel soldiers surrounding the city walls.

"You must go to them, Richard. You must speak to your people." The figure's voice was not particularly deep, but it _felt_ as if it was. It rumbled in Richard's bones.

"But...the Archbishop said..."

"Do not listen to him. In advising a third increase to the poll tax, in imprisoning John Ball, he is one of the chief architects of this crisis. Your people deserve to hear from you. Give them justice."

1\. If Aziraphale in peasant garb resembled a prosperous merchant who had inexplicably decided to slum it for a week, Crowley's look had landed not so much on "upstanding yeoman" as "highwayman on vacation".Back

2.Amblers have an unusual gait that makes for a much more comfortable ride on a rough road than a standard trot. The palfreys often mentioned in medieval stories as ladies' mounts were amblers, but it was not uncommon for a knight to ride such a horse to a battle and then switch to something larger or faster.Back

3\. The memory of that conflict and his part in it probably had something to do with why Aziraphale was so willing to get rid of his sword before he even met Crowley. Afterwards, of course...well, let's just say the phrase "just following orders" made him progressively angrier every time he heard it.Back

4\. It was still an uneasy and fragile truce Crowley had with the beast. While the horse hadn't attempted to kick him again, it did seem to get a vindictive pleasure out of embarrassing him.Back

5\. In their own ways, and with different arguments, both angel and demon attempted to ensure that no one _completely_ uninvolved with government abuses got their head chopped off. But stopping it entirely would have required interventions that would immediately have had both head offices breathing down their necks OR possibly getting themselves discorporated by contradicting the medieval sense of justice to an unacceptable degree. After all, the rebels reasoned, the manorial courts were not shy in dealing out swift executions - why should they be? Back

6.Well, the two supernatural beings in the crowd, obviously. They both knew well enough that the Almighty did not personally interest herself in human politics. Not anymore, that is. And a good thing, too; England was having enough troubles without rains of frogs or people turning into salt to deal with. Even so, neither could help speculating that perhaps this _was_ in some sense meant to be.Back

7\. In a way, this was true. The Almighty had received quite a few prayers, conscious and unconscious, from Aziraphale on behalf of the demon. And vice versa, though Crowley's were considerably less politely worded most of the time.Back

8.While serfdom was already on the wane, a large proportion of the people of England were still bonded to the land. They could be traded along with that land to another lord, and could not leave to seek other employment, or even marry someone outside of the area without permission.Back

9.Acts 2.44-45.Back

10\. Surname note: "Webster" = female weaver, as "Baxter" = female baker, and "Brewster" = female brewer.Back

11\. When he thought about his Fall - which would be never, if he could help it - those thoughts dredged up confusion, hurt, anger...but never _regret_. Crowley had examined the choices he had made, the questions he had asked, backwards and forwards hundreds of times over last seven millennia. Most still seemed reasonable, and even the mistakes didn't seem like they should add up to "eternally unforgiveable". So if that was how the Almighty and heaven's bureaucracy wanted to play it - fine. Good riddance to them.Back

12\. Earlier in the century, a large number of people from Flanders who had run afoul of their rulers had settled in England. Many of them were weavers, fullers, and others who fit well into the local wool industry. They fit a bit too well for the taste of many locals, who accused the immigrants of stealing their livelihoods. A simmering resentment had built up in many cities, London included, and all it took was a bit of lawlessness for people to seize the opportunity to act on it.Back

13\. Crowley had discovered that a bit of crushed mica scattered through his feathers made a very pleasing and useful effect when impersonating an angel. Demons weren't meant to be _pretty_ , and most humans had forgotten that Falling didn't turn feathers into bat-wings. This approach let him skip the energy-intensive and somewhat unreliable glamour that would have made his wings look white.Back


	3. So close, and yet so far

"Master Crowley, Master Fell! Did you hear the news?" Paul the scribe was fairly dancing in place with excitement.

"What news?" Aziraphale inquired.

"The king is coming out to meet with us! Down at Mile End!"

"Is he?" The angel shot a look at Crowley. The demon's face showed nothing but innocent curiosity at the news, which was in itself rather suspicious. "Well, it's about time."

When they reached the meeting place, King Richard was reading over the rebels' list of demands with the aid of one of his scribes. He had brought only a small bodyguard with him, and none of his more senior advisors. The king was very young but dignified and stately. Slim and golden haired, he looked like one might imagine King Arthur appeared when he pulled the sword from the stone.

"Where are your right-hand men, your majesty?" Watt Tyler was inquiring with an insolent grin.

"To whom do you refer, Master Tyler?"

"Hales and Sudbury."

The young king grew very still. "Ah. We felt it was best if they remained in the Tower." Crowley could feel a frisson pass through the crowd at that.

"That was wise, your majesty. And what do you say to our terms?"

Richard II pursed his lips thoughtfully. "We will agree to all terms of reason."

"Does that include the abolition serfdom, your majesty?" John Ball asked.

The king nodded. "The charters will be drawn up tomorrow."

At this news, the rebels crowed into the tent and those clustered around it whooped and cheered.

"What of Sudbury and Hales?" Tyler asked.

Richard met his eyes steadily. "Certainly any found guilty of treason must be brought to justice."

Johanna Ferrour, who had called for that clause, said nothing. But her eyes flashed triumphantly and she slipped out of the tent. Crowley did not immediately see her go, as his attention was focused on the interaction between Richard and Watt. But shortly thereafter the angel beside him stiffened.

"Do you hear that?"

It was the noise of a mob baying for blood, moving toward the southwest.

"Son of a bitch," the demon hissed under his breath, eyes still fixed on the young monarch, who was calmly writing out a note. "You did that on purpose!"

This boy had thrown his own advisors to the wolves...with perfect plausible deniability.

~

The rest of the day was a bloody blur. The rebel mob, led by Johanna Ferrour and her husband, surrounded the Tower of London. Once again there was no resistance from the guards. Johanna's crew found Archbishop Sudbury and Robert Hales hiding in the chapel of the White Tower, and dragged them outside to be beheaded. Some of the rebels found the king's nephew1 and would have executed him as well, had John Ferrour not stopped them. Richard's sister and mother - both named Joan - were in the Tower as well, though they were merely mocked and left unharmed.

Richard had moved his operations to the Great Wardrobe in Blackfriars, where clerks were set to copying out charters for the jubilant rebels.

When Thomas Baker announced they would be heading home, Crowley goggled at him incredulously.

"Of course!" Baker flourished an official looking document. "We got our charter, just like those lords got from old John Softsword. Everything we wanted, and full pardons, too!"

"Don't be an idiot!" the demon growled, "Those lords had to enforce the Great Charter with the point of their swords!"

"Aye, but our young king is nothing like old King John. 'Sides, we've been away a fortnight already, and we've got fields and shops to tend."

"A f...Do you know how much of a fucking miracle it is that you did all this in a fucking _fortnight_?! And you're going to risk throwing that away by disbanding _now_?"

But there was no arguing with him. By the end of the day, most of the Essex contingent had left, and many of the moderate types from Maidstone and Canterbury as well, leaving London in the hands of the more radical Kentish rebels. Well into the evening bands of them, mixed with local radicals and hoodlums, roamed the city. Those under Tyler's command mostly hunted down associates of the king's hated uncle, John of Gaunt. But others went about murdering anyone associated with the legal system, while still others turned their ire on foreigners like the Flemings. Aziraphale's attempts to inspire mercy or argue for proper procedure barely made a dent in the bloodshed. Crowley's threats and arguments from practicality - it's bad propaganda to make yourself too obviously the villain - fared scarcely better. Only the fall of night, and a mix of exhaustion and too much ale brought the day's violence to a close.

~~~

"You need to get your men under control." Crowley glowered at Watt Tyler, who was casually drinking his morning ale.

The Kentishman put down his mug and gave the demon a long look. "Oh, do I? And who made you general?"

"You have your charters. Just what is this continued lawlessness meant to achieve?"

"We have _a_ charter. But I think we can do better."

The demon stared at him. "You want to try to press the king for more, do you?"

"The king's a pup with no teeth. Aye, I'm going to press for more. In fact, I'll accept no less than a full end to any distinction between lords and commoners. And I'll keep my men here until young Richard agrees."

_You reckless fool,_ Crowley thought. But before he had a chance to voice it, the scribe Paul bustled up.

"The king has agreed to meet with us this afternoon, at Smithfield," he announced, handing over a letter.

Watt read it, and smirked. "You see, Brother Crowley? Everything is working out as I planned."

~

"This is all going to go terribly wrong," the demon muttered under his breath.

He was standing beside Aziraphale on a small rise, just high enough to see over the ranks of rebels in front of them. Despite the departure of a large proportion of their forces, more than a thousand remained. Incongruously, many waved the Saint Andrews flag or the royal standard, declaring themselves true patriots. The king had just ridden out with a body guard of two hundred soldiers and was taking up a position with his back to the city wall.

"Why do you say that?" the angel whispered.

"Not sure. I just..." Crowley rubbed his brow, wondering how to explain. "Look, you know how you can sense virtues?"

The angel gave him a slightly confused look. "Yes...if I'm paying attention or they are strong enough, anyway.

"Yeah, well, this place - both sides of it - is just a stew of vices right now. Pride, wrath, envy, treachery." He flicked out a forked tongue briefly. "And there's fear, and a desperate hope too." The demon couldn't sense those emotions in the same way, but he could _smell_ them on the air, sweated out by nearly two thousand humans at once. "It's a volatile mix, Angel."

They fell silent as Watt rode out to meet the king.

~

Watt grinned at the king from atop his horse, and reached out. "Hello, brother."

Richard's face went blank, but he shook the rebel leader's hand. "How do you do, Master Tyler?"

"It is a scorcher today, and no mistake," Watt said casually. "Can't anyone bring us some water? We have much to talk about."

"Of course."

The young king gestured to a squire, who brought Watt a skin of water. The rebel leader took a swig, swirled it around his mouth, and spat it on the ground. "Uggh. Don't know how anyone drinks London water. Bring us some ale, lad."

The squire looked uncertainly at his king, who nodded.

"Now, Master Tyler," the young king said. "The charters you requested were signed. Why are your men still running riot in London?"

Watt grinned at him. "Well, that is appreciated, but it seems to us that there are still quite a few changes that ought to be made."

"Is that so?"

"Aye. As our John Ball likes to say, God made no distinction between folk when he created man. So what we we _want_ is for _you_ to put out the word that we've no need for any lords any more, nor any bishops or archbishops." Watt inclined his head thoughtfully for a moment. "Well...our John can be Archbishop of Canterbury, perhaps. He's pure enough to handle it, y'see. But as for all the other greedy bastards, we'll see to it their wealth is shared out among the people who they claimed to own, who they squeezed for every last penny."

The king's blue eyes were cold. "I see. And who would keep order and administer justice if you had no lords?"

"Oh, we'd handle that ourselves. Don't you worry about that, brother." Watt had absentmindedly pulled out a knife, and was twirling it from hand to hand. "We've seen plenty of legal proceedings, and I reckon we can design something more fit for the purpose. Now...what do you say? And where did that squire fellow get to with that ale?"

~

"No, no, no. What are you doing, you idiot?" Crowley hissed through his teeth. He couldn't hear what was going on, but his eyes were quite keen enough to pick up on the flash of a blade even from this distance. He could smell the growing tension.

The squire rode up with the beer, but then seemed to get in some kind of argument with Watt - possibly complaining of the rebel's rudeness toward the king, or accusing him of twirling about his knife as a threat. The mayor of London, William Walworth, spurred his horse forward between the two. He and Watt began shouting at one another. Walworth made a gesture to the king's soldiers that looked distinctly like: _arrest this man_. As two of the soldiers rode forward, Watt's knife flashed with purpose this time, and stabbed into the mayor's side. Or would have -The rent in Walworth's cloak revealed he was wearing armor underneath. The mayor twisted and buried his own dagger in Watt Tyler's neck.

"Oh, fuck." Similar exclamations of shock and dismay rippled through the assembled rebels; Crowley even fancied he heard the angel mutter something that was possibly a profanity2. At the same time, the squire who had started the argument gave a shout of rage and ran Tyler through with his sword, drawing more outraged cries from the rebels, who began to unsheath their own swords and nock arrows to their bowstrings. Just when it seemed they were about to sweep down and annihilate the royal party, the king spurred his horse toward the rebel army.

"My people!" he cried, "You shall have what you deserve, and you shall have no other king but me. Follow me to Clarkenwell!"

There was some uncertain shifting in the ranks but, despite that ambiguous wording, many cheered - some because with one leader fallen they felt in need of another, others perhaps because they had been uneasy with Tyler's willingness to embrace chaos as a tool. And had they not declared themselves supporters of Richard? With his fearless pose and the sun glinting off his golden hair he was the image of a good and noble prince.

"Are you insane?!" Crowley growled, grabbing at the nearest rebel leader who was starting to move in the direction Richard had indicated. "Don't listen to _him_!"

"But he is our king," the man protested.

" _Exactly_. You think you can trust a king right now?" He turned to Aziraphale with a look that said: _Please help me convince these people this is a terrible idea._

The angel nodded sharply, and bustled after the next semi-authoritative looking figure. "I say - Have you thought this through?"

They managed to convince about two hundred people to retreat. Aziraphale shepherded them away, but Crowley had to know how this was going to end. He flew back to a spot on the east side of the city and shifted into his snake form. Cautiously, he followed the wall around to the north until he could see the rebel forces gathered at Clarkenwell, milling around uncertainly. He felt the rumble of hooves through his belly scales before he heard it. "Oh, no. Come on you idiotsss. Move!" he hissed under his breath.

The reinforcements the king had called in appeared over the hill from the north. At the same time, mayor Walworth rode out of the city with his men. One of them carried Watt Tyler's head mounted on a pike like a standard3.

Dismayed, the rebel forces fell to their knees to beg for mercy.

"Traitorous villeins!" the king declared. "Did you think you were fit to rule? Rustics you were and rustics you are still. You will _remain_ in bondage. Not as before, but incomparably harsher." The flame of revolt, after all, must be thoroughly snuffed out.

~

Crowley didn't see the angel again for more than a month. He could sense him - now to the north, now to the east, sometimes closer, sometimes further. But Aziraphale didn't seek him out, and Crowley was not inclined to push the matter. After all, who knew if the angel would even want to speak to him again after this disaster?

_I mean, he probably shouldn't, should he?_ the demon thought miserably. _Everything I touch just turns to rot or ashes._

Besides, it wasn't quite over yet. Most of the rebels had returned to their homes, blissfully ignorant of the events that had followed so close on the heels of the charter signing. They could still be warned, and even if they couldn't rally they might still have a chance to run or hide4.

_I don't know why I bother. A proper demon should just celebrate the chaos and suffering, shouldn't they?_ But, then again, when had he ever really felt like a proper demon? Or a proper angel, for that matter? _Just a fuck-up all around, I suppose._

When he did stumble on Aziraphale again, it was in Putney Heath. The angel was sitting on the ground, gazing back down the Thames toward London. He was hugging his knees, wrapped in a ball of misery. For all his doubts about whether Aziraphale would want to see him, Crowley couldn't just leave him like that. And even if he _could_ make himself slink off, the angel would surely sense him arriving and then leaving again...and that would just be the nail in the coffin, wouldn't it?

So he stepped closer, and cleared his throat. "Angel?"

Aziraphale turned. "Ah. Hello, my dear," he said weakly. "I'm glad you're here - it's been a _wretched_ week."

Crowley swallowed thickly. He'd been steeling himself to expect the cold shoulder or an accusatory tirade. Not the angel looking at him as if _of course_ he was there to commiserate over the failure of a shared venture. He sank down on the grass beside him.

"Did you...did you hear they...executed John Ball this morning?" Aziraphale asked quietly.

"I heard he'd been arrested," the demon replied. "But I wasn't there, at the end."

"I was. It...seemed the least I could do. After, you know. Encouraging him. To be there, to try to take a way a bit of the pain." Aziraphale shuddered. "The way it was done...How do they come up with such awful ideas?5"

Crowley let out a long breath. "Well, I'd like to say it was hell's influence, but honestly I think our lot got the idea of showing people's guts to them from the humans. The whole combination thing is odd, too. Very indecisive. Like 'we didn't know which method to use, so we used all of them.'"

They sat in silence for a while.

"Sorry you ended up involved in all of this, Angel," Crowley said at last. "I know it's...not your thing."

Aziraphale huffed out a puff of air. "Ha. Well. I suppose I've got no one to blame but myself for that, really."

The demon raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I'm not going to blame _you_ , dear boy," the angel replied, almost irritably. "I was already well involved when we ran into each other. And even if I _initially_ thought I might have to thwart you a bit...I noticed you weren't too keen to see things spiral out of control either."

Crowley swallowed again. "Nrggh. Yeah, well...this isn't quite how I pictured things ending up. Who'd have thought they'd manage to get so close, and then bollix it up at the last minute?"

"They trusted their king."

Crowley smiled grimly. He was tolerant of teenage shenanigans, as a rule. But he had plans for that little bastard6.

"What are you going to do now?" Aziraphale asked.

"I hear some of the Essex rebels are going to try and regroup at Billericay. I thought I should go up there. For..." _For what? Moral support?_ That _would be a weird thing to say._ "I dunno. Just...in case."

The angel sighed. "Perhaps I should come with you."

Crowley's eyebrows climbed even higher up his face. "Really? Why?"

"I don't know. I suppose I still feel somewhat responsible for them."

The demon grunted. It was _very_ strange to hear his own thoughts echoed by the angel. Still... "Well, I'm not going to complain of your company. Should you want to tag along."

_ Late July 1381 _

The angel and demon walked in near silence for about an hour, leaving the forest of Billericay and the smell of death behind them.

"Ah, this looks like a good spot to stop for a bit, don't you think?"

The demon was pointing at an apple orchard. Aziraphale gave him a look that said: _A bit on the nose, isn't it, my dear?_ Out loud, he merely remarked: "Yes, I suppose that will do."

They settled in a shady spot. Aziraphale pulled out his wine skin and took a sip before passing it to Crowley.

The demon took a larger swig and fixed the angel with an appraising eye. "You know, we probably ought to change up our appearances a bit. Just in case someone remembers us being involved with...all that."

"Hmm. Yes, you're probably right, dear boy."

Aziraphale waved a hand over himself, and his cote lengthened and darkened into an approximation of a Franciscan habit. His silver hair, too, acquired a small tonsure at the back7.

Crowley looked thoughtful for a few seconds, then underwent his own, rather more dramatic, transformation. His formerly short hair suddenly tumbled in loose curls over the shoulders of the wine-colored gown and black kirtle that had replaced his charcoal-grey cote and red hose, reaching almost to his hips. The new garments were cut to emphasize the narrowness of the demon's waist and his - or rather _her_ \- fashionably small breasts. Her facial features had shifted subtly too - the stubble disappearing, the chin narrowing - but the demon's mischievous grin was exactly the same.

"Well, _really_ ," Aziraphale huffed.

Crowley put on an innocent expression. "What?"

"You waited to see what I was going to pick just to choose something scandalously incongruous, didn't you?"

"Well, if the king's men _are_ looking for a pair of mismatched brothers, this should throw them off the scent, don't you think? Besides, now anyone spotting us will assume the naughty friar wants his privacy." She waggled her eyebrows salaciously.

The angel rolled his eyes. "You are incorrigible."

"Naturally."

"You could at least _try_ to maintain some decency while we're in public."

"Uggh, _fine_."

The demon clicked her fingers, and her hair began to braid itself, the braids coiling up and pinning themselves into place. She could have made a comment about how the fuss so many cultures made about having women's hair tied down or covered up or otherwise under control spoke volumes about their opinions of the women themselves. But after the day they'd had she didn't have the energy. Besides, Crowley had noticed the slight flush in the angel's cheeks when her long hair first manifested, and the regretful little sigh as the last curl tucked itself away8. She'd think about that later. At great length, probably.

"So. Have you decided what you're going to tell your head office about this debacle?"

Aziraphale frowned, and took another pull at the wine flask. He shook his head.

"Me neither. I suppose we'd better work it out, hadn't we?"

The angel snapped his fingers. A piece of parchment appeared in one hand, a quill - so snowy white Crowley strongly suspected it was made from one of the angel's own feathers - in the other. "Right, then. Where should we start?"

~

Nearly two hours had passed, and the afternoon shadows were starting to lengthen. The wineskin had refilled itself several times. Halfway through, Crowley's serpentine instincts had kicked in, and she was now stretched out on the grass on her stomach, chin propped on one hand. Aziraphale was too drunk and preoccupied to object to her unladylike posture. He frowned at the list he held in his ink-spattered hand.

"What've we got, then?" Crowley inquired, her voice slurring slightly.

"Well, for yours: wrath and violence on both sides, vandalism/destruction of property, disruption of tax collection, the royal double double-cross, and, for survivors, optimism for future and faith in monarchy crushed. And a number of souls collected early9."

Aziraphale paused. "Umm. Did you want to add the thing with the Flemish weavers and the law clerks as 'murder of innocents'?10"

"Not particularly, but I suppose I should. To be thorough. There was some looting toward the end there. Might as well claim that too, I guess." The demon sighed. "What did we have for your list?"

Aziraphale grimaced. It had become clear very early in their discussion that there was no way he could admit to having a part in actually _promoting_ the revolt, given how it turned out. "Well, I can probably gloss the bit with John Ball as encouraging engagement with scripture and people putting their faith into action. Umm. Then there's the folk saved from execution or mob violence in Canterbury and London..."

"Pppft. Like Gabriel cares about saving lives," Crowley muttered. "But you can have my lot too for that category, if you want."

Aziraphale shot her a look. The demon wasn't exactly wrong, though; the Archangels tended to hold that since mortal lives were finite it didn't matter that much when and how they ended. "I'll emphasize that it prevented the would-be perpetrators from staining their souls with innocent blood, and gave the would-be victims more time to repent any sins they might be carrying. And I suppose I can add those books that didn't get burnt. Yes, I _know_ what you're going to say - Gabriel cares even less about books. But what if I call it 'preserving useful human knowledge'?"

Crowley waved a hand. "Eh. There have to have been some psalters and such rubbish in there. Maybe he'd appreciate that. Umm. Is that it?"

"I'm afraid so. Looks like you win this round."

The demon downed the last of the wine in one gulp. "Oh really? Well, wahoo for me," she replied, with a complete lack of enthusiasm.

After a little while, Crowley levered herself back up into the approximation of a normal sitting position. "Well, back to the grind, I suppose." She glanced at the angel hesitantly. "Umm, Are you still up for The Arrangement? After _this_ , I mean?"

Aziraphale nodded. "Of course, my dear. But maybe we should keep in touch more closely? Probably no better to be _accidentally_ collaborating than to be cancelling each other out, after all."

Crowley felt a rush of pure delight at that thought, but she merely nodded. "Yeah. Sure. Only sensible, really."

"It _is_ in the Great Plan, you know," Aziraphale remarked.

Crowley squinted in confusion. _The Arrangement? No, that_ can't _be what he means._ "What is?"

"The end of serfdom and slavery, at least as the...the done thing, you know. Metatron told me."

Crowley raised her eyebrows. "They _did_? That's more...forthcoming than usual."

"Well, it had been bothering me for a few centuries, and I think all my suggestions about seeing to it that the scriptures got updated a bit - you know, perhaps a 'thou shalt not treat other people as property, neither your servants nor your wife' - were getting on Gabriel's nerves. He sent me to Metatron, who basically said 'Don't fuss, it isn't permanent'." The angel gave a rueful smile. "However, they didn't say _when_. I suppose after more than a millennium I was starting to get impatient again."

"Understandable. But I guess it wasn't time yet?"

"Apparently not."

Crowley glanced over her shoulder. Seeing they were alone, she began to sing:

_Labor and spin for fellowship I say,  
Labor and spin for the love of one another  
Labor and spin for fellowship I say,  
In the light that is coming in the morning_

Aziraphale recognized the tune, and joined in on the chorus:

_Sing, John Ball; tell it to them all  
Long live the day that is dawning!  
And I'll crow like a cock, I'll carol like a lark  
In the light that is coming in the morning_

A minstrel among the rebels had composed it, and it had just begun to spread when that light was snuffed out. For now. But tomorrow...well, who knew?

1\. The future Henry IV. Although, given how he BECAME Henry IV, beheading him would have done Richard II a favor.Back

2\. Or possibly one of his creative substitutes. Crowley could barely suppress his urge to snicker every time he heard the angel say "Oh, butter"...but now was not the time.Back

3\. The last the rebel leader's comrades had seen of him, he was being carried off to the abbey of St. Bartholomew for treatment. But he was mortally wounded, and was most likely already dead or close to it when the mayor's men dragged him away from the monks and beheaded him.Back

4\. All charters were revoked by the king on July 2, including the clauses of amnesty.Back

5\. Like William Wallace a century earlier, John Ball was hung, drawn, and quartered in Smithfield.Back

6\. It took a couple of decades, but Richard the II was overthrown by one of his own noblemen, who became Henry IV.Back

7\. Generally one of the world's least attractive hairstyles, in Crowley's opinion - although he supposed that was the point. It kind of worked on the angel, though, making his light curls look even more halo-like.Back

8\. It had been at least a thousand years since Aziraphale had seen the demon wear his/her hair like that - the way it had looked in Eden. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed it.Back

9\. By this, Crowley meant Sudbury and Hales, sharing the rebel's opinion that they were probably a sure bet for hell in any case. She didn't care to speculate about any of the others; presumably Dagon would put an official number in their commendation if they felt it was important.Back

10\. His hesitancy in mentioning this came from the look he'd noticed on Crowley's face the last time the subject came up. The demon had _said_ something along the lines of "Well, if an army ever sacks a city without _some_ minor atrocity, that'd be a _proper_ miracle." But for a moment that cynical mask had cracked, and even without seeing Crowley's eyes Aziraphale could read the anger, disappointment, and grief that lay beneath. He'd filed that thought away. He had quite a large number of such mental files that, had he sat down and sorted through them systematically, could have made a full book titled something like: "A case study challenging celestial models of demon psychology". As it was, the bits relating to how Crowley felt about humans wouldn't assemble themselves into an accurate and coherent statement for another 111 years. Consciously putting words to the rest - what kind of a person the demon truly was overall, and how he felt about _Aziraphale_ \- would take another 450 and 527 years, respectively, after that initial revelation.Back

**Author's Note:**

> This story came about because my musings on why Crowley particularly hated the 14th century (not hard to come up with reasons - it was a pretty awful time in Europe) coincided with research on the Peasant's Revolt I was doing for an original story. Of COURSE the OG rebel who is both officially encouraged to stir up trouble and secretly in favor of humans being better to one another was going to get involved in that. But would Aziraphale? It's always a toss-up whether he's going to go with "I don't like it, but those are the rules", "Actually, if you consider the SPIRIT of the rules I'm probably doing the right thing. I hope. Oh dear," or "Screw it, I'm putting my foot down: this just isn't right". Went with the middle option here.
> 
> The Peasant's Revolt (AKA Watt Tyler's Revolt, AKA The Great Rising) of 1381 came remarkably close to succeeding. The speed with which it spread through the whole of the southeast of England, the sophistication of the demands, and the use of highly targeted violence to make a point suggest that it was well-planned, rather than just the mob uprising the chroniclers tried to paint it as. They actually did take London within weeks of the start, in part because people in charge of fortified buildings like Rochester Castle or the Tower of London kept just opening the doors! The coded letter Crowley carries here is word-for-word what was found on one of the rebels, just in less archaic spelling.  
> John Ball was a defrocked priest turned radical preacher who was one of the leading figures of the revolt. He saw in the new English translation of the bible inspiration for a more egalitarian England. His sermon/speech here is based on some of the fragments of his sermons that survive, and the parts of the bible that seem to have inspired him. Less is known about Watt Tyler's origins, except for his profession.  
> Though most of the rebellion's leaders were gruesomely executed, many of their demands were eventually met. By the end of the year Parliament advised the king that military efforts on the continent should be carefully but substantially reduced, as new taxes could not effectively be raised. Lords began quietly selling serfs their freedom or converting to new leasehold arrangements; as a result, serfdom effectively ended in England by the 15th century, though it lingered on in other parts of Europe, often until other revolutions took place (like the French Revolution in 1789). Of course, new hierarchies based on capital ended up taking the place of the old feudal land-based ones, and growing freedoms at home came alongside some extremely reprehensible behavior in the colonies. But the egalitarian vision of John Ball and the other rebels of 1381 has remained an inspiration to social movements, especially of the left-leaning sort. It was a fun coincidence that I was able to post this between May Day (a spring fertility festival that by the late middle ages was associated with challenging authority, and is currently International Worker's Day) and the date the revolt kicked off in Brentwood (May 30).
> 
> Had some doubts about including so much Petrarch in here, but those three poems all seemed like they would resonate with Crowley. I strongly suspect our favorite demon would have had a strong - if perhaps not entirely deliberate - influence on the development of the idea of courtly love. And Petrarch was not only a master of that genre, he also did stuff that was distinctly odd for the 14th century, like climbing a mountain just for the hell of it. I could definitely see Crowley liking him - probably more so than Dante. Wish I could have included Bridget of Sweden in person, but I couldn't find quite enough details to come up with good dialog for her. 
> 
> "Sing John Ball" is an anachronism. It was actually written by Sydney Carter in 1981 to celebrate the 600th anniversary of the Peasant's Revolt. But it sounds rather like it could have been original and I wouldn't be surprised if there were contemporary protest songs that have since been lost.  
> The other verses are:  
>  _Who'll be the lady, who will be the lord,  
>  When we are ruled by the love of one another?  
> Who'll be the lady, who will be the lord,  
> In the light that is coming in the morning?_
> 
> _Eve is the lady, Adam is the lord,  
>  When we are ruled by the love of one another  
> Eve is the lady, Adam is the lord,  
> In the light that is coming in the morning_
> 
> _All will be ruled by fellowship I say,  
>  All will be ruled by the love of one another  
> All will be ruled by fellowship I say,  
> In the light that is coming in the morning  
>  _  
> See an excellent rendition by the Melrose Quartet here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8eWu1gMVSN8).__


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